A Thief's Fear
by FantasyBard
Summary: When the mysterious case of a 20-year-old disappearance and a monstrous hound brings Sherlock, Brenna and John to the moors of Devon, they will find that the darkest secrets are often found, not in ghostly legends, but in reality. Sooner or later, all fears must be faced. Part of A Thief's Life series. BrenLock. Full summary inside.
1. Texting

**I wasn't going to post this until after the holidays, than I thought, what the heck, as long as I have this first chapter ready, I might as well post it as a Christmas present. I am really looking forward to this episode, as it is happens to be one of my favorites in the series. As I said in the last chapter of A Thief's Secrets, it's going to be somewhat lighter in tone, starting right off with the first chapter. We also be getting a peek into some of the hidden secrets of Sherlock's back story, at least the way I imagine it to be. Without any further ado then, let's get the preliminaries out of the way and dive right in. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. It was created By Arthur Conan Doyle, re-imagined by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, and brought to life by a superb and talented cast and crew. I do not make any money off of this. I am just a fan who enjoys visiting this little world every once and awhile. **

**This story is rated T for scenes of sexuality, violence (including references to child abuse), and scenes of a dark nature. **

**A Thief's Fear, or the Hounds of Baskerville**

**The moors of Dartmoor have always been a place of myth and legend. But lately rumors of a monstrous hound, supposedly from the top secret lab known as Baskerville, roaming the moors at night, has brought more attention to that county than ever before. **

**It is in the quest of this hound that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have some to Dartmoor. They are investigating the case, brought to them by Henry Knight, a man who has suffered more from the rumors than perhaps anyone else. **

**Sherlock is certain that it is nothing more than a legend. But when his confidence is shaken, only Brenna can help him cope with the haunting memories that have been conjured. **

**Sometimes, the scariest ghosts aren't those that come from the stories, but from the real world. Reality can be colder and darker than any ghost story. Sooner or later, all fears will have to be faced. **

**Now, please enjoy the first chapter of A Thief's Life.**

Texting:

Sherlock just walked in covered blood. JW

How interesting, was it human blood? BR

I hope not. He was also carrying a harpoon. JW

Oh, ho hum. Same old, same old. What else is new? BR

He's got no cases and no experiments to keep him busy. But he's somehow still up every night until 3AM. JW

Operating on nothing but caffeine, correct? BR

He did have a sandwich last night. JW

So, basically he's being impossible? BR

Impossible is an understatement. Quite honestly, I think he misses being able to impress you. JW

If he still feels a need to impress me even when I'm not there, he's more codependent than I thought. BR

You have been gone for two weeks; I think he just misses you. JW

Aw, how sweet. BR

It is not sweet. It is an egregious situation that can only be prevented by your returning. You should have really considered Sherlock's mind set before you decided to take a vacation. JW

Sherlock, give John his phone back. BR

**How did you know it was me? SH**

You took nine minutes to try and steal John's phone so you could read his texts. You were jealous because I'm paying more attention to John than you. Regardless of the fact that you haven't even answered my texts or calls in the past three days. Plus, only you, Sherlock would use the word "egregious" in a text. BR

See, I can do it to. :) BR

**Stop using those signs when you text me. SH**

:( BR

**I SAID STOP IT! SH**

:'( BR

**You are impossible. SH**

Thank you. That's why you love me. BR

All right, you two, calm down. JW

**How am I supposed to calm down when I have no cases? BR**

Do I detect a hint of desperate whining, Sherlock? BR

And why are you texting John when I presume that you've been standing in the same room? BR

On second thought, don't tell me, I don't want to know. BR

Quite frankly, Sherlock, you don't really know any new cases. You need a cold shower. JW

**I wouldn't need any of those things if you were here. SH**

Aw, you do miss me. :) BR

**They aren't going to go away are they? They're like flies. SH**

They've called emicons, Sherlock. I actually think it's cute that Brenna uses them with you. :) JW

**Oh, God, not you as well. SH**

It's been fun, boys. But I think that I'm going to skip out before it becomes more exciting. John, hide your gun so that Sherlock doesn't use it for target practice again. Sherlock, go find a case. BR

* * *

It had all started a few weeks ago. It had been about t two months since Irene Adler's case file had been permanently closed. Two months since Brenna had been kidnapped by Jim Moriarty and tortured for information related to her father's whereabouts. She had completely recovered from her injuries. However, mentally recovering wasn't the easiest thing, because the White Collar had been swamped with a slew of cases. She had hardly had one quiet moment to herself to sit and process what the encounters with Moriarty and Irene Adler had done to her. Add in the truth that Alice had told her in the aftermath and what all of those might mean to her future, and she had no idea how to make out everything.

She hadn't been aware of how much she might need some clarity of mind until it became apparent to Alice that a little vacation might be in order. She had come up to Brenna during the course of the day, after they had wound up a particularly difficult case, and said, "Brenna, we need to talk."

Brenna looked up, somewhat taken aback. "We do? What about?"

"You. I know that things around here have been pretty much controlled chaos. We've had to deal with a lot as a department, what with all the cases we've been having and everything that you're trying to figure out about your dad."

"I'm fine, Alice, really I am."

"Brenna, you've been dealt several blows in the past few months. On the surface, it may all make sense, but I don't think you've had the chance to really let it sink in. It's showing, too. Maybe not in your performance, but in your personality. Why, I haven't heard you complain about Sherlock for an entire week. That's what really got me worried."

"Maybe, we're just in a really good place."

"Brenna, I take it is a healthy sign of your relationship that you have at least one god argument a week with Sherlock."

Brenna sighed and leaned back in her chair. "All right, you may have a point. I've barely had a moment to think through everything that you told me. But what am I supposed to do, ask the criminals of London to lay off their crimes for a few weeks so I can organize everything that's going wrong in my personal life?"

Alice smiled at her. "What would you say to a holiday?"

Brenna looked at her. "A what?"

"You know, holiday, vacation, getting away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, resting and recreating?"

"That sounds very nice, but seeing as you still have me on a leash, I don't know how I can go on a holiday without some of the higher-ups on your end objecting it."

"Oh, they've been taken care of." At Brenna's confused expression, Alice explained, "Apparently, someone, who shall remain nameless, but who has performed many favors for the English nation, got in touch with the right people, saying that you were in desperate need of a respite from your duties. Apparently, your psychological health would suffer greatly, and you would be of no further use to the Yard."

"Justine?" Brenna asked.

"Yes, Justine." Said Alice.

Brenna took a moment to think about this idea, before she smiled. "You sure you could handle yourself here if I disappeared for a couple of weeks?" Brenna asked.

"I think we could hobble along somehow." Said Alice, with a smile.

That had pretty much decided it. Brenna had taken the time away with alacrity. She was going to visit her sister's family in Exeter. Martha had extended an invitation to her when she had been taking care of her a few months before. She thought it was high time to accept that invitation.

The only one who had been rather less than thrilled with the idea had been Sherlock. No surprise there, as Sherlock was somewhat used to seeing her every day and didn't like anything interfering with his routine. He had rather sullenly told her that if she wanted to abandon him for two weeks that was entirely up to her. He didn't care at all. Of course, the sex the night before she left and the goodbye at the train station when she had left, when Sherlock had rather resembled a sad, waterlogged puppy, had given the lie to those statements.

The visit had actually gone better than she had expected. There had been some moments of awkwardness, but those had gradually started to be replaced by more positive emotions. It helped matters that Martha had three children who could not remember why their aunt had been gone, or even cared about their reason. In their eyes, she was also a hero, who had saved them all. She also brought them many presents and had many exciting stories to tell. She had also brought her beagle, Lily. Lily had proved to be an instant hit with her sister's family, and from the start, she had become particularly attached to the children.

The time she spent with Martha was not enough to erase all that she had missed. But she and Martha had agreed that they no longer would dwell on the past, it was time to look to the future. She and Martha would dwell on the past; it was time to look to the future.

She did not head directly back to London after her trip to the coast. There was one other place where she would be spending a few days, Grimpen, a little village in the heart of the Devon wilds. The moors had always been Brenna's favorite part of England. Something about the lonely, hilly plains, the wind whispering a song that was both haunting and beautiful, the way the sky and grasslands could go on for ages made one feel as if they were the only person in the entire world. And that was sometimes a very welcome feeling.

But, she soon found out that part of Devon was not as lonely as it had once been. As she was coming into town, she saw the cars and small groups of people clustered around the street corners and commons. She also saw signs that advertised "Monster Walks: Five Times a Day" and "Beware the Hound." She hadn't known that Devon had become a magnet for monster chasers. She thought that only happened around Loch Ness.

She found out more when she checked into the Cross Keys Pub and Inn, run by a gay couple by the names of Gary and Billy.

"Hey, Gary, look here." said Billy, the shorter one with short, brownish-red hair, small-set, squinty eyes and a lightly nasal voice. "We've got an extra visitor."

Billy was about a foot taller than his partner, with a deep voice that carried the hint of a Scottish accent. He bent down to scratch Lily behind the ears, and Lily's tale immediately began to wag. "She's a friendly one, isn't she?"

"Believe me, she can be even more effusive than this if you give her the chance." Said Brenna, with a smile. "Amazing considering where she came from. I found her at a crime scene. I don't know how it happened, but she had a broken leg, looked half starved and hadn't had a bath in weeks. She still greeted me in the same way she's doing you right now."

"So, you a police officer, than?" Gary asked.

"Well, yes, I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking."

"Hmm, that's a bit odd." Said Bill, as he straightened up and leaned against the counter.

"Why?"

"Well, no disrespect to you, of course. I just would have thought an officer would have been to literal-minded to pay any attention to rumor."

"What do you mean?"

"What? You didn't see the posters as you came in?" Gary asked, "You're not here for the monster hunt?"

"Um, no, I can't say as I am. What monster hunt are you talking about?"

"Monster hound that roams the moors at night." Said Gary, in a spooky voice, "It tears apart its victims and leaves no trace of them behind."

Brenna raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Don't laugh, it's true." Said Billy, "The legend's been around for at least twenty years. It made off with the body of Henry Knight's father, and there have been sightings of it ever since. Even Fletcher, the chap who runs the daily monster walks has seen him, only last month.

Brenna wasn't really one to pay much attention to conspiracy theories. There was more than enough drama and mystery to occupy her in the real world. On the other hand, that didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy a good story when she heard it. "Well, if it's only been around for twenty years, where did it come from in the first place?"

"Baskerville, most likely." Said Gary.

"Baskerville?"

"I can't blame you if you've never heard of it." Said Billy, "It's an army base, about twenty miles south of here. Very hush-hush and secret. No one really knows what goes on down there, but you can imagine the usual things. Rumor has it that they've been breeding attack animals down there, mutated specimens that sort of thing. I wouldn't let them get to close to that little lady of yours. She might come back with two heads and a nasty disposition."

"I'll certainly remember that, gentlemen, thank you."

Since Brenna was in Grimpen for the next few days, she thought she would check out this Hound legend. She saw the recent documentary about the Hound (the Cross Keys had a copy on loan at the front desk), and she even went on the monster hunt tour the following day. It was… well, to be quite honest, it was a little cheesy. As far as Brenna could determine, there wasn't any truth to the legend. All the photos were obviously fake and the first-hand witness accounts were sketchy at best. It was really what she had expected. An eccentric English village that just wanted its own little bit of fame.

There was one aspect of the legend which she thought was interesting. Henry Knight, one of the most prominent town residents, had apparently lost his father to the Hound. At the age of seven, he had witnessed the Hound tear his father apart at Dewer's Hollow, a local landmark that was rumored to be haunted. It seemed to have permanently scarred him. He had lost his mother only a few months before, so he had found himself very suddenly an orphan. Brenna always sympathized with people who had lost their families in tragic circumstances.

However, after her first day of monster hunting, she had pretty much decided that such a life was not for her. She found much more satisfying entertainment by taking long walks along the moor, taking her sketch book along with her to capture whatever might have captured her eye. Dartmoor had always been a place where reality was always treading the divide with legend. She did not need a demon hound to make her feel the wonder of the place.

And little could she have suspected that her little adventure in Dartmoor was about to take a most unexpected turn, one that dealt with murder and true conspiracy and a mystery that would lead to an early reunion with a certain consulting detective.

* * *

**Well, I hope that you all enjoyed this first chapter of what is going to be an exciting adventure. Though this is one of my favorite episodes, even I admit that there are a few plot holes, so while it will not be as AU as Scandal in Belgravia, I might be putting in a few of my own thoughts, especially when it comes to the motivations and back story of characters like Henry and Bob Frankland. I hope that you enjoy them. **

**Anyway, please read and review. **


	2. Unexpected Reunion

**Thanks for all the positive feedback on the last chapter. It's good to know that so many people enjoy this little series of mine. Here is a double update, which brings John and Sherlock to Grimpen. There is also some jealous/protective Sherlock, because who doesn't love a helping of that every once and awhile?**

Unexpected Reunion:

John Watson was actually quite relieved that Sherlock had finally gotten a case which seemed to capture his attention. He had actually been beginning to worry about him. Granted, he always worried about Sherlock, but he seemed to do it less when Brenna was around to keep him on an even keel. When she wasn't there, Sherlock was reduced almost immediately to a grumpy, snappy and more than a little manic personality.

The behavior of the last few hours was a vast improvement. Sherlock actually seemed to be happy. He had deduced everyone on the train to within an inch of their lives, and then had passed the time on the ride by estimating the speed and distance that the train was traveling by counting telegraph poles.

It was a relief to see Sherlock in his element instead of pining away for his long-distant girlfriend. However, John was becoming just a little tired of the persistent rumor that followed him wherever he went. It seemed that even in the wilds of Devon, everyone automatically assumed that he and Sherlock were gay. He couldn't help but wonder if this was going to be a longer case then he had thought.

Sherlock, as was his wont whenever he was in a new place, was prowling in the background, observing every nook and cranny. He was also paying no attention whatever to the awkward situation that John was finding himself in. John couldn't rely on him to dispel the rumors, not that he ever did anyway.

Gary and Billy were telling John about the town, explaining that the skull and crossbones on his map was the old Baskerville testing ground for mines, and, according to Gary, a place where people who wandered into Baskerville were blown up, and that was under the best of circumstances. Apparently, the presence of the secret testing site and the presence of a demon hound out on the moor brought tourism up quite a bit.

Their conversation (which was wandering once more into awkward territory for John, when Billy asked if Sherlock snored), was interrupted when Sherlock suddenly called sharply, "John, come over here." He had stopped in his cat-like prowling, as his attention had suddenly been captivated by something out of the window.

"What? What is it?" asked John, somewhat impatiently as he went over to the window. He was just as startled as Sherlock when he saw that none other than Brenna was outside, arguing with a man whose company was singularly repellent to her. "Oh my god, what's she doing here?"

"Oh, I see you're getting a sense of another of latest dramas." Said Gary, from the bar. "Brenna Ryan, nice lass, came in here two days ago from Exeter. She said was on holiday. Immediately, this guy named Carl starts trying to put the moves on her."

"Put the-" Sherlock said, "Why? She's only going to be here a few days ago."

"Oh, she told him that." said Billy, "In no uncertain terms she said that she wasn't interested, even had a boyfriend back home, but Carl's not used to taking no for an answer. He's one of the monster hunter regulars. Comes down here every few months to look for fresh clues. Of course, he also likes to do other types of hunting while he's down here."

"Yep, and he set his sights on Miss Ryan. Won't leave her alone. I'm surprised that she hasn't been using force."

Gary trailed off when Sherlock suddenly turned from the window and strode to the door. His face had hardened upon hearing this story, and his eyes were glittering with a barely controlled anger. Up till that point, both Gary and Sherlock really had paid Sherlock no mind, seeing him as maybe a little eccentric, but not altogether interesting. However, upon seeing this rather strong display of emotion, they seemed a little puzzled. "Hey," said Billy, "Is he all right?"

"No, I don't think he is." Said John, who had seen that look before and knew exactly what was about to happen. "You maybe shouldn't have mentioned that."

Brenna was totally unmindful that she had an audience of familiar faces. All her attention was focused don trying to get rid of Carl. "Come on, babe, what harm could one drink do?" said Carl, in a tone that would have made most women faint directly into his arms.

However, Brenna was proving be singularly unresponsive. "I told you, I'm already spoken for, and I can tell you right now my boyfriend wouldn't like it."

"Oh, come on, he doesn't have to know."

"He _will_ know, believe me. He's that kind of person, he's impossible to lie to."

"Having a boyfriend like that makes it really hard to have any fun." Said Carl, "Tell me more about this boyfriend of yours, maybe I could give you a few painters on how to deal with them."

"I am perfectly capable of handling myself, thank you very much." She tried to leave, but he grabbed her by the arm, putting both his arms around her waist. "Let go of me."

"You know, I really think we could be good for each other. You help me, I help you. We could both benefit. Let me-"

It had been this unwise action on the part of Carl that had prompted Sherlock to intervene, and he did so in his usual, completely unsubtle manner. Carl suddenly felt himself grabbed from behind by both shoulders, almost literally torn from Brenna's arms and thrown roughly and unceremoniously to the ground. When Carl managed to clear his head, he found himself looking into Sherlock's angry face. "I do believe that this lady has made her feelings of your presence quite clear." He spat, coldly, "I would advise you to disappear before worse happens to you."

Paul gaped up at Sherlock's rather imposing figure. "Who the hell are you? What right do you have to dictate to me what I want to do?"

"Only because what you want seems to conflict with what she wants."

Carl managed to get to his feet, his bravado returning, as he assessed the fact that this guy was thin and lanky, easy enough for him to take on. "Look, this really is none of your business, so just move along and I'll forget the whole thing."

Sherlock smiled, a cold, delighted smile that resembled a cat about to pounce on a totally defenseless mouse. "Oh, I'm not going to do that. In fact, I think you should be the one to move along and forget the whole thing."

"Really? Give me one good reason why I should?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes." Carl's smug look instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of sudden nervousness. It seemed that his reputation had gone out even this far. For once, he was almost glad of that. "Ah, I see you have heard of me. Most of the time I tend to loath celebrity, but in this instance, I think I am quite glad of it."

Carl laughed, clearly ill at ease. "Uh, look, man, I know how this might look, but I can explain, really, I can."

"Oh, really? I should love to see you try. No, actually, don't. My time is too valuable to listen to your pathetic attempts at deduction. I can some up your entire problem with women quite easily. Despite all your blustering attempts at seduction, you are a man who performs quite poorly, but you also have an almost uncontrollable hunger for the attentions of a woman. And the only way you can keep up your reputation and satisfy your desires is to continually look for new targets who know nothing about you and your deficiencies. If I were you, I would start looking into getting some help for that."

Carl had turned beet red when he heard Sherlock's accusations. It seemed as though any urge to fight had been taken out of him, and the only thing he wanted to do was get out of there as quickly as he could. "Hey, look, I'm sorry. It's just that I-"

His words were abruptly cut off when Sherlock seized him by the throat and hauled him to his feet. "Get out!" He spat, "Get out of Grimpen and don't come back! If I catch you stalking my partner again, I can promise you that you will not like the consequences." He pushed Carl away so roughly and with such force that the unfortunate man ran into the wall of the inn behind him with a resounding and painful thud. Blurrily, he managed to collect himself and hurried away, frightened of what Sherlock Holmes might do if he thought to press the point.

The miscreant taken care of, Sherlock turned around to look at Brenna properly. She was smiling, and she even laughed. "Well, this is certainly an unexpected surprise."

Sherlock found herself returning the smile. He had missed Brenna terribly, though he never would have admitted it to himself. "Is it a good one as well being unexpected?"

Brenna's smile widened. "I don't know. Kiss me, and we'll find out."

Sherlock needed second bidding. He stepped forward, put his hand on the back of Brenna's neck and kissed her deeply. She signed happily, and returned it. Life had suddenly just gone from good, to absolutely fantastic.

John, Gary, and Billy had witnessed this entire thing, they had even seen Carl blundering by them on his way up to his room to pack and get the hell out of there before Sherlock could do something worse. Now, Gary and Billy turned and looked at John in puzzlement. "So, you two really aren't?" Billy asked, almost uncertainly.

"Oh no, god no. Of course not." Said John.

Gary and Billy looked at each other. "Well, you could have fooled us." Said Gary.

At this moment, Brenna and Sherlock, arm in arm and now all smiles, came into the pub. When Brenna saw John, her face lit up even more. She hurried over to John and gave him a big hug. "John, of course you're here."

Sherlock looked slightly miffed that Brenna was almost as excited to see John as she was to see him. When he felt that the hug had gone on long enough, he wrapped his arms around Brenna's waist and managed to pry her off John. Gary and Billy had retreated back to the bar, muttering to each other about the bizarre folk that came up from London.

Now that the greetings had been exchanged, Brenna now asked the one question which had been turning in her head ever since she had seen Sherlock. "Not that it isn't wonderful to see you boys, but what in the world are you doing here of all places?"

"Couldn't we ask you the same question?" Sherlock asked.

"I am on holiday, Sherlock, remember? I can't see what possible reason either of you would come out to the wilds of Devon. Surely you're not telling me that you've developed a sudden interest in monster hunting?"

"No, we're here on a case." Said John.

"Really, what kind of case?"

"Henry Knight came to the flat this morning." John explained, "He wanted to ask Sherlock's help about the disappearance of his father."

"Yes, I saw the documentary. He said that his father being torn apart by the Hound twenty years ago. Why would he want to come to you about after all this time? I mean, it's an awful tragedy and the body was never found, but surely you wouldn't be interested in a case that dealt with the supernatural?"

"He old us that he's only recently come back to Grimpen, at the advice of his therapist." Said John, "He's been trying to face his demons, to use his words. He saw something at Dewer's Hollow the other night, footprints of some sort. And for some reason that was enough to make Sherlock suddenly want to trek down here in order to check it out."

"I don't see why your complaining." Said Sherlock, "You were the one who was telling me all last week that I needed to get out of the flat if I were to retain my sanity, not to mention yours'.

"So you just decided to come down here based on footprints?" Said Brenna, "I suppose you've become interested on cases for stranger reasons."

"It wasn't just the footprints." Huffed Sherlock, "As usual, John has completely garbled the telling of the story, leaving me to fill in the gaps. Come along with me and I'll tell you the whole story." Before Brenna could respond in any particular fashion, Sherlock took her by the arm and led her up the stairs to the rest of the rooms.

* * *

No sooner had the door closed on Brenna's hotel room than Sherlock immediately grabbed Brenna around the waist, pushed her up against the wall and proceeded to kiss her senseless. The move was more or less completely unexpected and Brenna only had time for a brief squeal of surprise before she succumbed to Sherlock's incredibly talented tongue pushing into her mouth. She didn't even notice that Sherlock had removed her coat along with his own at seemingly the same time.

Sherlock moved quickly to the side of her neck, automatically seeking her weak spots. Brenna gasped, and pulled herself closer to him. This seemed to fit in nicely with Sherlock's plans. He tugged her closer to him; tangling his fingers in her hair and pulling her head back slightly so that he could get an even better angle on her neck.

Before Brenna knew exactly what or how it was happening, she was on the bed on her room, with Sherlock pressing down on her into the mattress. Brenna somehow managed to get her head clear long enough to realize that what Sherlock had in mind was a little bit more than a simple kiss hello.

"Sherlock," she managed to gasp out, "Sherlock, do you really think now is the best time for this?"

Sherlock abruptly paused in his task of trying to unbutton Brenna's blouse, and looked down at her in annoyance. "It's been fifteen days since out last sexual encounter." He started, as though it should have been indisputably logical. "Do you have any idea how long that is to be for waiting for you to come home?"

"Oh, so you missed me after all, did you?"

Sherlock planted either of his hands between hear head and leaned closer to her. "And, you know," he said, his voice having grown deeper and more seductive, "that the more quips you make, the more succeed in arousing me?" He pressed more feather light kisses into her neck. Despite herself, Brenna squirmed underneath him, the kind of reaction that he liked best.

"You know, it's not very flattering to miss your significant other merely because your sexual life suddenly became nil."

Sherlock stopped kissing her neck just long enough too look at her. "You can hardly accuse me of being a sexual pervert when you've been experiencing the same frustrations I have."

"I have been perfectly happy, Sherlock."

"Than why are your pupils dilating." Asked Sherlock, as he pressed kisses on her eyes, "And your pulse is racing getting faster all the time," He pressed his lips along her neck; Brenna mewled softly and squirmed underneath him. Sherlock grinned and continued. "And you're vocal demonstrations along with your automatic reaction give a lie to that statement."

Brenna raised herself to her elbows, forcing Sherlock to retreat a little. This was a competition, and she was not willing to back down. "And what about John? I thought you two were down here to investigate some monster hound?"

Sherlock ran one hand along her thigh. "Henry's suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. There is no Hound."

"Then why are you even here?"

Sherlock continued to kiss her neck, speaking in between them. "The footprints of a giant hound, he said… old fashioned term… archaic… there must be something else… something that he remembers beyond just a large dog."

"Something? Like something from Baskerville, perhaps."

"Well, that is the primary secretive establishment in this part of the world. It stands to reason that whatever frightened Henry would come from there."

Sherlock moved into add a little bit of physical persuasion to his seduction, but Brenna placed a hand on his chest and pushed him firmly back. "So, it stands to reason that you would want to investigate Baskerville as soon as you can. You wouldn't want to waste time on frivolous physical interactions now, would we?"

Sherlock stared at her for several seconds, before he closed his eyes and sat back. "Why must you be logical at the most inconvenient moments?"

Brenna laughed. Since she had won, she could afford to be graceful. "Oh, come on, Sherlock. You've waited this long, surely a few more hours won't be too difficult. Besides, I happened to pick up a few things during my trip that I think you'll find very stimulating."

Sherlock's attention was peaked. He looked at her renewed interest. "Really? What are they?"

"Be good and tonight I'll show you." said Brenna, in a husky voice.

"I'll look forward to it." Said Sherlock, grinning back at her.


	3. Getting Information

Getting Information:

John was honestly surprised when he saw Brenna and Sherlock come downstairs into the pub. "Well, that was certainly quick."

"What?" said Sherlock.

"I wasn't expecting to see you for at least another few hours or have the two of you managed to get extraordinarily efficient with your time?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, Brenna and I are two mature adults. We are perfectly capable of having a reunion without immediately tumbling into the nearest bed."

John regarded the two of them with raised eyebrows, "Really?"

"Give it a rest you two." Said Brenna, "Don't we have some haunted military facility to go check out?"

"We?" questioned John.

"Of course," said Brenna, "Now that you're here and on a case which sounds quite exciting, you're not honestly expecting me to stay here and let you two boys have all the fun?"

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Said John, "I have to call Henry and tell him that we've arrived. By the way, I found out from Gary that someone had seen the Hound."

"Really?"' said Sherlock, skeptically.

"Yeah, the kid who runs the monster walks."

"What, you mean Fetcher?" said Brenna.

"You went on one of those so-called monster walks?" Asked Sherlock, "Honestly, Brenna, you couldn't find anything better to do with your time than that?"

"I was just trying to experience the local atmosphere, Sherlock. For heaven's sake, there's hardly any need to make a big deal out of it."

"So, it seems that I'm going to be playing referee to you two again? Wonderful." Said John, before moving off to place his call to Henry.

Almost as soon as he was gone, then Sherlock grabbed her around the waist and guided her out the door. "What are we doing, Sherlock?" Brenna whispered.

"Getting information." Said Sherlock, as she picked up a discarded glass of beer from a table and headed over to the table where Fletcher was currently sitting. "Mind if we join you?" He asked, in a conversational tone. At Fletcher's absent nod, Sherlock sat down, and began his line of inquiry with, "So you haven't actually seen it, have you, this Hound thing?" His tone was skeptical and he seemed to be trying to keep himself from laughing.

"Are you with the papers?" asked Fletcher, cautiously, almost as if he were offended that his story was being doubted.

That same moment, John walked up to them and sat down, saying, "I called Henry-"

"Bet's off, John. Sorry." Said Sherlock, cutting his friend off abruptly.

"What?" said John, clearly confused as to what Sherlock was talking about.

"My plan requires darkness." Said Sherlock, seemingly starting off on a completely different tangent, as he looked first at his watch and then glanced up at the sky. "Reckon we've got another half an hour of light."

"Wait, wait. What bet?" asked Fletcher, more intrigued than he had been before.

"Oh, I bet John fifty quid that you couldn't prove you had seen the Hound." Said Sherlock.

"Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could." Said John, catching onto Sherlock's meaning and playing along.

Brenna couldn't help but roll her eyes, at the classic pattern of male ego. Try asking a simple, straight forward question, and you would never get anywhere. Even hint that there was a wager involved, and immediately, they would open up about everything.

"Well, you're gonna lose your money, mate." Said Fletcher, smugly. "I seen it, only about a month ago." He took out his cell phone and started flipping through his pictures. "It was foggy, mind. Couldn't make much out."

"I see. No witnesses, I suppose?" Said Sherlock, who already seemed bored.

"Nope."

"Never are."

"Wait. There." Fletcher held his phone up, and on the screen, they saw a blurry picture. It was in some sort of wooded area, taken at night. In the middle of the picture was a large, muddled blackish-brown blob, that conceivably had fur, and maybe four legs, and maybe a head if one looked closely, and had a good imagination.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was not at all impressed with this so called "evidence". "Is that it? It's not exactly proof, is it? Sorry, John, I win."

But Fletcher wasn't finished. "Wait, wait, wait, people don't like goin' up there, ya know. To the Hollow, it gives 'em a bad sort of feelin'."

Sherlock gave about as much credence to ghost stories as he did to legends of monster hounds. "Oh, is it haunted? Is that supposed to convince me?"

"No, don't be stupid, nothin' like that. But I reckon there is something out there. Something from Baskerville, escaped."

Sherlock was making no attempt to hide the enjoyment he was getting out of this little conversation, and sniggered when he heard this. "A clone, a super-dog?"

"Maybe. God knows that they've been spraying on us all these years, or putting in the water. I wouldn't trust 'em as far as I could spit."

"Whether or not you trust them doesn't really matter, does it?" asked Brenna, "The truth is, all you've got is a rumor and a crappy photograph taken at night on a cell phone. You can maybe fool some of those people who go on those so-called monster tours you organize, but if you ever want anyone to take you seriously, you're going to have to work a little harder to prove it."

"She's right, you know." said Sherlock, "Is that the best you've got?"

Fletcher's face grew serious, and for a moment he seemed almost reluctant to go on. When he continued, his voice had lowered, as though he were afraid of being overheard. "I had a mate once who worked for the MOD. One weekend we were meant to go fishin' but he never showed up, well, not 'til late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. 'I've seen things today, Fletch,' he said, 'that I never wanna see again. Terrible things.' He'd been to some secret army place; Porton Down, maybe, maybe Baskerville, or somewhere else. In the labs there, the really secret labs, he said he'd seen… terrible things. Rats as big as dogs, he said, and dogs, dogs the size of horses."

Fletcher pulled out a large plaster cast from his bag and held it up for them to see. Brenna recognized it as that of a dog, but it was by the far the largest paw print from a dog that she had ever seen. "I suppose that's proof enough, even for you, Sherlock. There is something out there that we might need to keep an eye out for."

Both John and Sherlock were staring at the footprint in silent agreement. It wasn't enough to completely convince Sherlock that there was a monster hound, but it was a confirmation that Henry's footprints had not been a mere hallucination. He might need to cast his sights further in order to solve this case.

"You did say fifty?" John reminded Sherlock.

Casting him a glare for remembering the terms of a bet he had made up, Sherlock pulled out his wallet and handed over the money to John before getting up rather sullenly and walking towards the rover he had rented for their time in Grimpen, Brenna following him.

"Remind me never to play poker with you." Brenna said, making no attempt to hide her grin.

"You enjoyed that, I take it?"

"What? Watching you become a victim of one your own schemes? Sherlock, whatever gave you that idea?"

Sherlock huffed, but made no reply. John joined them, looking about as pleased with himself as could be expected. "So, where to now?"

"I think it's time we got down to the heart of the matter."

"So, we're going to see Henry?"

"No," said Sherlock, heading for the land rover. "You'll see when we get there. You coming, Brenna?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," said Brenna, grinning. However, just as she was about to get into the rover, she paused when she something out of the corner of her eye. "Wait, I'll be right back."

To John and Sherlock's utter surprise, she turned around and headed towards the door of the Inn, where Carl had just appeared, carrying what appeared to be a very hastily packed suitcase. "Carl," she called, making a point to make her voice sound sweet and sugary.

Carl turned at the sound of her voice, and he paled in fear when he saw Brenna approaching. "Look, I got the message from your boyfriend. I'm heading out; he doesn't need to drive the point home."

"Actually, I wanted to apologize for him." Said Brenna, sounding genuinely concerned, and even a little ashamed. "What he did to you was totally uncalled for."

Carl stared at her. "Really? You think so?"

"Yes, I just want to try and make it up to you somehow."

She sounded so completely sincere that Carl fell for it hook, line and sinker. He took a step forward and even smiled. "Really? How did you plan on doing that?"

Brenna also took a step forward, her sweet, totally innocent smile growing wider. But if Carl had been looking at her eyes rather than her chest, he might have noticed the devilish gleam in her eye that would have alerted him. However, he had fallen into her trap. "By giving you exactly what you deserve."

Brenna had learned a lot from her father about how to deal with unnamed parasites: if repeated utterance of the word no continually reap no results, than there was only one thing to do: deliver a blow where it hurts the most.

Before Carl could react, Brenna had grabbed him by the shoulders, and had delivered a knee to his groin. The next second, Carl was crumpled on the ground, groaning in agony and clutching his private areas. The blow had been so precise and forceful, that every male who just happened to witness it (John and Sherlock included), winced in sympathy.

"Don't you ever come near me again, you idiot." Spat Brenna, all pretence now dropped, as she stared down at Carl's quivering form, "If you do, I'll give you some more of what I just gave you, and you won't be able to have sex again without remembering how much pain you're in now. Good bye."

With that, she turned around and marched over to Sherlock and John. "Thank you. I needed that."

"Nice touch." Said Sherlock, with obvious pride, as he opened the door for Brenna. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

"That idiot sod deserved it." Said John, "But remind me never to get you angry."

* * *

**Hey, we all like seeing jealous protective Sherlock, but who also doesn't love a woman who can kick butt, in some cases, quite literally? Anyway, hope that you enjoyed this little double header of BrenLock goodness. Please read and review. **

**Also, I have an announcement regarding updates with the advent of the New Year. I may have some trouble updating regularly about mid January, because I will be moving to Orlando, and beginning to work at Walt Disney World. A dream come true for me, but it will involve a lot of rearranging in my schedule and personal life as I try to adjust to a new place and a new job. Who knows? I might be doing a lot more writing just to get away from the stress for a few minutes. Still, I just want to give a heads up in case there is a long break in updates. Hopefully, by around March, I will have an established pattern, and I will be able to update regularly again. **

**For right now, though, please read and review. **


	4. Baskerville

**So, this chapter is a little long, but I hope that it is enjoyable. Also, special thanks to the website Arianne DeVere on Live Journal, which has an excellent transcript for The Hounds of the Baskerville. **

Baskerville:

As Sherlock drove them through the Devon countryside, he remained tight lipped as to their ultimate destination. It wasn't until they turned onto a side road, and Brenna saw the sign which warned of what was up ahead that she began to worry. "Uh, Sherlock, you do realize where we just turned?"

"Yes." Said Sherlock, never taking his eyes off the road.

"We're going to Baskerville?" said John.

"Brenna herself pointed it out, and the footprints that both Fletcher and Henry have seen indicates that there is some sort of entity out there, and it's logical to assume that whatever it is, it could have had it's origins at Baskerville."

"Sherlock, I wasn't actually suggesting that you take Baskerville by frontal assault." Said Brenna.

"Well, what would you have done, break in like you did that one time at the Louvre?

"Sherlock, that was when I was young and stupid, and I had some time to plan." She saw John gaping at her in surprise. "I lost a bet, all right? And I didn't take anything; I just needed to spend an entire 24 hours inside without being detected."

"You certainly ran with an interesting crowd during your criminal past I see."

"But, you succeeded." Said Sherlock, "So, surely twenty minutes or so in an army base should be no problem."

"And what are you planning on doing? Pick the lock on the back door?"

"No, I plan on walking through the front door which they will open for me."

Before Brenna could ask what he meant by that, they arrived at Baskerville's front gate. It only took a cursory inspection of the exterior to see that Baskerville was impenetrable. Heavily armed, dour-looking guards were standing at regular intervals along the perimeter; others were patrolling with German shepherds that most likely could have shredded Brenna's Lily into quivering strips of flesh. There were two fences encircling the compound, one was solid iron, while the inner was barbed wire. Brenna suspected that both of them were rigged to set off an alarm if an attempt were made to break in. Baskerville held many secrets, and the security measures were clearly meant to keep those secrets in, and the curious out.

And it was this bastion of strength that Sherlock sought to break into. Brenna had absolutely no idea how would they be able to do that without being searched and put through a complete background check or worse.

The guard at the main gate approached Sherlock's window, and Sherlock handed him an identification card. As the guard went back to verify that ID on their system, Sherlock looked back at Brenna with a triumphant smirk. "See, right through the open front door?"

"You have a card for Baskerville?" said John, in disbelief, "How?"

"It's not specific to this place." Sherlock explained, "It's my brother's. Access all areas. I-" Sherlock paused and cleared his throat. "Acquired it ages ago. Just in case."

"I don't know whether to be proud or disturbed." Said Brenna. "I'm not sure if I've been meaning to lead you astray, Sherlock, but even if I were, this wouldn't be quite what I had in mind."

"We'll be caught." Said John.

"No, we won't." said Sherlock, with his usual carefree confidence. However, he amended it in the next sentence. "Well, not just yet."

"How comforting." Muttered Brenna.

"Caught in five minutes. 'Oh hi, we just thought we'd come and have a wander round your top secret weapons base.' 'Really? Great! Come in, kettle's just boiled.' That's if we don't get shot."

The guard came back to the car window, and handed the card back to Sherlock, waving him through and instructing him to pull straight ahead. Sherlock thanked him, and started up the rover, as the gates opened. "Mycroft's name literally opens doors." John commented.

"I told you, he practically is the British government." Sherlock replied, "I reckon we've got twenty minutes before they realize something's wrong."

Sherlock drove the land rover up to the main entrance of Baskerville. The security only seemed to grow tighter the further into the compound they went. By the time they came to a stop, there literally were dozens of guards swarming all over the place. They had been joined by numerous men and woman in white lab coats, no doubt the scientists who worked in the laboratories at Baskerville.

Sherlock, John and Brenna got out and began to walk towards Baskerville's front door. "Security here is tighter than at most of the major museums around the world." Brenna said, taking a quick look around. "Sad. The worst that humanity can do to itself is placed behind iron bars under lock and key, while it's beauties can sometimes seem free for anyone to take."

At that moment, an army jeep came to a stop behind them. A young corporal leapt out and hurried towards them. "What's the matter? Are we in trouble?"

"Are we in trouble, sir?" Sherlock corrected authoritatively, in full Mycroft mode. He had perfectly captured Mycroft's condescending tone and official air of someone who always got what he wanted.

The corporal immediately reacted to it, his tone becoming instantly more respectful. "Of course, sir. Sorry, sir."

"You were expecting us?"

"Your ID showed up straight away, Mr. Holmes. Corporal Lyons, Security. Is there something wrong, sir?"

"Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not."

"It's just that we don't get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn't happen."

Sherlock was about to respond when, to both his and Brenna's shock, John stepped in. "Ever heard of a spot check?" His tone had taken on his army officer voice. When he used that voice, even Sherlock listened (it was especially useful when he had to order Sherlock to eat). John took out his wallet and showed Lyons his military ID. "Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

Lyons immediately snapped to attention, and John returned the salute. "Sir," said Lyons, "Major Barrymore won't be pleased, sir. He'll want to see you both."

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but again John beat him to it. "Well, I'm afraid we won't have time for that, we'll need the full tour. Carry on." When Lyons seemed to hesitate, John's voice dropped a little and it carried a hint of warning. "That's an order, Corporal."

Lyons looked from Sherlock to John before nodding, until he noticed Brenna. "Excuse, ma'am, but you'll have to stay here."

Sherlock looked behind him, as if only now noticing Brenna standing there. "Anthea Smith, my PA." said Sherlock, with skipping a beat. "She'll be taking notes, assessing everything, storing any information for future use. She's essential to this procedure."

"But, Mr. Holmes-"

"If you have a problem with her, I can always check with your superior's at headquarters, and tell them that you weren't amenable to a simple request." Sherlock took out his cell phone, and began to dial the numbers. "I could do it right now, won't take a moment."

"Wait, sir." Said Lyons, sounding more than a little panicked. "That won't be necessary, sir. It's not a problem, not a problem at all."

"Good, I'm glad to hear that."

Brenna already had her phone out, and was doing more than a passable imitation of Anthea's single-minded typing. As they followed Lyons to the front door of Baskerville, she said in undertone to John. "Oh, John, I'm so proud of you." He looked back at her. "You were telling the truth to deceive someone. You have no idea how difficult that is."

"I'll take that as a complement, but nothing else." Said John, with a smile.

They stopped at the front door of Baskerville. Lyons swiped his card through the card reader, while Sherlock followed suit. He then surreptitiously checked his watch. Brenna knew that he was timing Mycroft, seeing just how long it would take for his brother to realize that something was amiss. Brenna resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the infantile display.

The group proceeded into Baskerville's bare grey hallways. This part of the laboratory seemed to be mostly populated by military personnel. As they walked to the elevator at the other end of the hall, Sherlock said to John in a low voice. "Nice touch." Referring to John's little show of authority outside.

"I haven't pulled rank in ages." John remarked wryly.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Oh, yeah."

They got into the elevator, and Lyons pressed the button that would take them to the laboratories below. Brenna noted that most of the complex seemed to be underground. That only made sense: considering Baskerville's sensitive and secretive nature, it only seemed natural that they should make it hard to get into. However, she didn't really want to think about what might be going down even further.

The elevator opened, and Brenna resisted the urge to shield her eyes against the blinding, white light which stabbed into her retinas. There were the main labs. They were sterile and white, with harsh, electric lighting beating down from above. Scientists in white lab coats were going to and fro, attending to their duties. It reminded her of the lab scenes in science fiction horror movies, where scientists who had had their minds wiped went about creating weapons and creatures capable of causing mass destruction and chaos. She wasn't quite sure if she believed in that reality, but this scene before her made her think perhaps this would be a good place to start.

To the right of the main elevator stood a long row of metal cages that held a variety of animals, used for scientific purposes. As they were walking past them, a monkey leaped at them, screaming and screeching in a manner that even seemed to catch Sherlock off-guard. "How many animals do you keep down here?"

"Lots, sir." Said Lyons.

Sherlock looked over at Brenna, noting the expression of distaste on her face as a worker walked past with a chained beagle. "Try not to show to much emotion here, Brenna. You're supposed to be imitating Anthea." He told her in a low voice.

"I can't help it." Muttered Brenna, through clenched teeth, "I hate the thought of my Lily cooped up in a place like this. Heaven knows what they even do to them down here."

"Any ever escape?" Sherlock asked, turning his attention back to Lyons.

"They'd have to know how to use that lift, sir. We're not breeding them to be that clever."

"Unless they have help." Said Sherlock, under his breath.

Brenna tried to pull her mind away from her the disgust of using beagles for scientific research, and focus on her surroundings, treating it as a museum which needed scoping out so that she could figure out its security. As far as she could tell, the labs were efficient and impenetrable. Sherlock was doing the same thing, and ahead of them, John was subtly pumping Lyons for information. It was a pattern that they had fallen into. John had proven to be far more adept at interrogation than Sherlock and that allowed Sherlock a chance to observe and deduce the surroundings and people. It was an efficient system and could yield very interesting results.

Their tour was interrupted by the approach of a man, who had just come out of a door at the far end of the lab. He was wearing a set of coveralls and a gas mask under his arm, indicating that he had probably been testing some sort of poisonous chemical in the room he had come out of. "Ah, and you are?" He asked, with a friendly smile. It was evidently an unusual occurrence to have visitors at Baskerville.

"Sorry, Dr. Frankland." Said Lyons, "I'm just showing these gentlemen around.

"Ah, new faces, huh? Nice. Careful you don't get stuck here, though. I only came to fix a tap."

John chuckled at this, perhaps more out of politeness than actually finding the joke funny, as Frankland passed through them and headed for the lift. "How far does that lift go?" John asked.

"Quite a way, sir." Lyons replied.

"Mmm-hmmm. And what's down there?"

"Well, we have to keep the bins somewhere, sir. This way please, gentlemen."

Both Sherlock and Brenna found themselves watching Frankland, as he walked into the elevator at the end of the hallway. The glance was exchanged by Frankland, who was gazing with at them with apparent interest at them. As the doors to the elevator closed, the two of them got back to their observing, as John and Lyons continued speaking. "So what exactly is it that you do here?"

"I thought you'd know, sir, this being an inspection."

"Well, I'm not an expert, am I?"

"Everything from stem cell research to trying to cure the common cold, sir."

"But, mostly weaponry?"

"Of one sort of another, yes."

They had reached a new door at the end of the lab. He swiped his card through the reader that was beside it, and stepped aside as Sherlock did the same. "Biological, chemical?"

"One war ends, another begins, sir. New enemies to fight. We have to be prepared."

Brenna caught Sherlock checking his watch once again, and couldn't help but whisper to him. "I bet that Anthea is going to be the first to catch on that something is wrong."

Sherlock smirked. "I wouldn't be surprised. Everything that gets to Mycroft's desk, comes through her first."

Lyons led them into another lab, where they saw another scientist observing a test with a monkey. She was a woman of about mid forties, with short blond hair and blue eyes. She had a very angular face, and the expression on it appeared to be one of near permanent clinical detachment. There certainly didn't seem to be much warmth in her manner, one that was held out on their first meeting.

"Dr. Stapleton." Said Lyons, as the three of them approached.

"Stapleton." Brenna hard Sherlock repeat thoughtfully to himself. But before she could think to ask him about it, Stapleton noticed them approaching.

"Yes? Who's this?"

"Priority Ultra, ma'am. Orders from on high. An inspection."

"Really?" said Stapleton, who clearly greeted this idea with skepticism.

"We're to be afforded every courtesy, Dr. Stapleton." Said Sherlock, who didn't like the tone of her voice. "What's your role at Baskerville?"

Stapleton greeted this question with a snort of disbelieving laughter. "Er, accorded every courtesy, isn't that the idea?" asked John, who added his own disapproval to Sherlock's voice.

"I'm not free to say. Official secrets."

Sherlock smiled darkly at Stapleton. "Oh, you most certainly are, and I suggest you remain that way." Sherlock's voice was more than a touch ominous, and Brenna had to give him credit for sounding and acting a great deal as Mycroft would have done in the same situation. It seemed to work on Stapleton's attitude as well, for she seemed to grow a little more respectful under Sherlock's penetrating gaze.

"I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up, genes, mostly; now and again, actual fingers."

Brenna's attention was drawn away from the conversation for a split second when she noticed that her phone had gotten a text. Surreptitiously, she glanced at it, and had to do her best to hide a smirk of triumph. It was from none other than Anthea.

**What the hell are you doing at Baskerville, Brenna? If I find out that you've done anything, I swear I'll-**

Brenna didn't bother to read the rest of it; she was certain that the rest of the message was some sort of hideous torture that Anthea might be well capable of executing. At the moment, there were more interesting things unfolding. Apparently hearing her name and speaking with her had stirred something in Sherlock's memory, for he had taken out his notebook and was writing in it. "Stapleton. I knew I knew your name."

"I doubt it." Said Stapleton.

"People say there's no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead." He held up the notebook for her to say, on which was written a single word: Bluebell. Stapleton seemed to be taken aback by this word for some reason, and Sherlock watched her reaction closely.

"Have you been talking to my daughter?"

"Why did Bluebell have to die, Dr. Stapleton?" Sherlock asked sharply, as he put his notebook away. He seemed to have reversed personalities yet again, and was now in full interrogation mode.

"Who?" asked Brenna, who had no idea what was going on.

"The rabbit?" said John, at almost the same moment. But though he seemed to get the reference, he was just as bewildered as Brenna as to what Sherlock was trying to do.

Of course, Sherlock, made no attempt to explain to either of them what he was doing. "Disappeared from inside a locked hutch, which is always suggestive."

"The rabbit?" John repeated.

"Clearly it was an inside job." Said Sherlock.

"Oh, you reckon." Said Stapleton.

"Wait, are you telling me that Bluebell is a rabbit?" said Brenna.

"Of course, it is, my dear." Said Sherlock, "Do try and keep up."

"Of course, Bluebell is a rabbit, that makes the whole thing so much more understandable." Said Brenna sarcastically.

Sherlock ignored it and turned back to Stapleton. "So, again back to my original question: why?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." Said Stapleton, who had regained her composure and her former suspicion. "Who are you again?"

Sherlock, however, seemed to have gotten everything that he wanted from Stapleton for the moment. He knew that his time was running short, and as he glanced at his watch, he saw that Mycroft should be getting some sort of message in a few minutes. Indeed, glancing over Brenna, he noticed her slight nod. That was his signal. "Well, I think we've seen enough for now, Corporal. Thank you so much."

Lyons seemed surprised that the tour should have been over so soon. "That's it."

"That's it." Said Sherlock, as he turned on his heel and headed for the doors at the far end of the hall. "It's this way, isn't it?"

Stapleton tried to shout after them to wait, but Sherlock completely ignored her. As John and Brenna caught up to them, John muttered to Sherlock in an angry tone of voice, "Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?"

"I'm still waiting for someone to tell me what the hell is going on." Said Brenna, "Oh, and Anthea has already tried to text me. Nineteen minutes, let's see how badly Mycroft trails behind."

As the three of them walked through the hall ways to the elevator that would take them back up to the main floor, Sherlock's phone chimed with an incoming text. **What are you doing? M**

Sherlock smirked and laughed. "Twenty-three minutes, Mycroft's getting slow."

They had made it to the elevator, and as the doors opened, Dr. Frankland was standing inside. He had taken off the coveralls and breathe mask and was now dressed in the more traditional lab coat. "Hello, again."

It was something of a surprise to see him again, but there was really no time to get into that. The clock was ticking and their escape was in sight. Brenna couldn't help but feel nostalgia for the old days when she had been in many similar positions during her thieving career. If she had had to be honest with herself, she was actually having fun. However, once they got to the first floor and the doors opened, they were met by the sight of a tall, bearded man in military uniform. He had obviously been waiting for them, and from the expression on his face, he was not in the mood to be welcoming.

Lyons knew him, and he immediately grew nervous. "Er, um, Major…"

"This is bloody outrageous." Growled Major Barrymore, who was the only person that Brenna thought that this man could be. "Why wasn't I told?"

John, being in the military, knew how to handle this sort of thing. "Major Barrymore, is it?" He stepped out of the elevator and offered his hand to Barrymore, "Yes, well, good. Very good. We're very impressed, aren't we, Mr. Holmes?"

Barrymore did not seem at all interested in the pleasantries and refused to shake John's hand. Brenna knew from past experience that they had to get out of there and get out of there fast. It was a mind-set that Sherlock seemed to share. He was already walking past Barrymore without looking at him. "Deeply; hugely." He had gotten another text message, and was reading it as he walked. **What's going on, Sherlock? M**

Barrymore followed after them. "The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense."

"I'm so sorry, Major." Said Sherlock, who didn't actually sound sorry at all.

"Inspections?" Barrymore continued, angrily.

"New policy. Can't remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows what you'd get up to." Said Sherlock.

"Just keep walking you two." Said Brenna, urgently and quietly to the two of them. "Pretend that you belong here, and don't show any uncertainty."

However, with the exit just a few feet away, the plan went hay wire. Lyons had momentarily ducked out of the hallway and he suddenly returned, crying out in alarm to Barrymore, "Sir." He slapped a button on the wall, and alarms started blaring all around them. Red lights started flashing, and an automatic security door banged over their exit. "ID unauthorized, sir."

"What?" said Barrymore, in disbelief.

"I've just had the call."

"Is that right?" said Barrymore, as he turned back to the three of them with a rather disturbing smile of triumph. "Who are you?"

"Look, there's obviously some kind of mistake." Said John.

Frankland had been lingering behind the little group, watching the proceedings with a great deal of interest. Barrymore held out his hand for Sherlock's ID card. Glancing at it for a moment, he looked back up at Sherlock. "Clearly not Sherlock Holmes."

"Computer error, Major." Said John, as took out his notebook and began to write, "It'll all have to go in the report."

"What the hell's going on?" Barrymore demanded, who was not buying any of it.

However, Frankland suddenly stepped forward and said, "It's all right, gentlemen. I know exactly who these gentlemen are."

"You do?" questioned Barrymore, skeptically.

"Yeah. I'm getting a little slow on faces, but Mr. Holmes here isn't someone I expected to show up in this place."

"Ah, well…" said Sherlock, trying to come up with an excuse.

But Frankland surprised them all when he stepped forward to shake Sherlock's hand, with a pleasant smile. "Good to see you again, Mycroft."

Brenna had to school her features in order to hide her surprise. Frankland was actually playing along with them? Whatever for? Sherlock, for his part, seemed to take this all in stride, as he took Frankland's hand with a false smile. "I had the honor of meeting Mr. Holmes at the W.H.O. conference in…" Frankland paused for a moment, perhaps pretending to think, "Brussels was it?"

"Vienna, sir." Corrected Brenna, now finding herself also able to play along.

"Of course, Vienna. How could I forget?" said Sherlock.

"Vienna, that's it." Said Frankland. He turned to Barrymore, "This is Mycroft Holmes, Major. There has obviously been some mistake."

For a long moment, Brenna held her breath, wondering if Barrymore would actually fall for it. Finally, the Major nodded to Lyons to turn off the alarms. A moment later, the hallway fell silent, and the security door over the main entrance disengaged and opened. "On your head be it, Dr. Frankland." Barrymore warned.

Frankland seemed to find this humorous, as he addressed the approaching Corporal Lyons. "I'll show them out, Corporal."

"Very well."

Sherlock didn't feel any need to linger, and immediately turned on his heel and headed out the door. "That was a bit to close for my taste." muttered Brenna.

Sherlock turned to look at her and smirked. "Oh, come on, you loved every minute of it."

Brenna returned the grin. "Of course, I did."

Frankland had followed them out of the complex, and Sherlock said, "Thank you."

"May I ask why you helped us." Brenna asked, "I saw you looking at us. You really know that this isn't Mycroft Holmes."

"No, you would be right." Said Frankland, "Look, this is about Henry Knight, isn't it?" They said nothing in response to this inquiry, but Frankland rightly took this as a confirmation. "I thought so. I knew he wanted help, but I didn't realize he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes. Oh, don't worry; I know who you really are. I'm never off your website." Sherlock's ego seemed rather pleased by this, but it was immediately deflated by Frankland's next statement. "Thought you'd be wearing the hat, though."

Sherlock's face went sour and he muttered sullenly under his breath. "That wasn't my hat."

Frankland didn't even hear him. "I hardly recognize you without the hat."

"It wasn't my hat." Sherlock repeated through gritted teeth.

"I love the blog too, Dr. Watson." Said Frankland, now speaking to John.

"Oh, cheers." Said John, who was a bit more open to praise than was Sherlock.

"The, er, pink thing and that one about the aluminum crutch." He turned to Brenna. "I seem to be drawing a blank on your name, miss, I'm afraid."

"Me? Oh, I'm a stalking, crazy fan intent on making sure that Sherlock pays attention to no one but me."

For a moment, Frankland stared at her Brenna with stunned surprise, clearly questioning if she was actually serious.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, as he wrapped one arm around Brenna's shoulder. "Must you say things like that, Brenna?"

"Just trying to keep things interesting."

"You know Henry Knight?" Sherlock asked.

"I knew his father better." Said Frankland. "He had all sorts of mad theories abut this place. Still, he was a good friend."

"Guys, I think that we're under surveillance." Brenna gestured over to the doorway, where Major Barrymore was still standing, giving them the evil eye. "We might want to start moving."

"Might be a good idea to heed." Said Frankland. "Listen, I can't really talk now. Here's my cell number." He handed them his card. "If I could help with Henry, give me a call."

Sherlock took the card. "I never did ask, Dr. Frankland, what exactly is it that you do here.'

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I would love to tell you, but then, of course, I would have to kill you."

"That would be tremendously ambitious of you." Sherlock commented.

"You'd have to take out that massive ego of his. That alone could take days." Sherlock beamed her an annoyed glare, but didn't comment.

"Tell me about Dr. Stapleton." He said, to Frankland instead.

"Never speak ill of a colleague." Frankland stated, and Brenna almost believed him.

"I think, however, you would speak well of one," she commented, "Which you clearly are not doing. You think she's doing something illicit with her position here at Baskerville?"

"Well, that wouldn't be for me to say." Said Frankland, "However, I can say that some scientists here at Baskerville might be tempted to use their exalted positions for personal gain."

"Worth remembering." Said Brenna, to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded, before he lifted Frankland's card in reference, saying to him. "We'll be in touch."

"Anytime." Said Frankland, waving at them before heading back to Baskerville.

"So?" said John, as they made their way to the car.

"So?" Sherlock repeated, as if trying to understand what John was implying.

"What was all that about the rabbit?"

"Probably Sherlock's determination to bring a minor issue into a large problem."

Sherlock only humphed in reply, as he pulled his coat tighter around him, and unconsciously flipped up his collar. John rolled his eyes in exasperation when he saw this. "Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?"

"You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool."

Sherlock seemed utterly mortified that John would accuse him of something as inane as vanity. "I don't do that."

"Yeah, you do."

Sherlock looked at Brenna, perhaps hoping that she would speak up in his support. "Don't look at Sherlock. He's right. You can sometimes act like a teenage girl the way you worry about your appearance."

Sherlock grumbled something that was unintelligible and got into the car to start it. They left Baskerville without incident and drove along the country road. Brenna was the first to speak. "So, what was all that about the rabbit? And what did Stapleton have to do with it?"

"Sherlock got an e-mail this morning from a girl named Kristy Stapleton. She said her rabbit started to glow like a fairy, and the next morning, it was gone."

Brenna looked at Sherlock. "And you actually devoted time to this?"

"He wanted me to call Lestrade to report it." Said John.

"So, Kristy Stapleton is Dr. Stapleton's daughter." Said Brenna, fitting the pieces together.

"And her mother just happens to specialize in genetic manipulation." Sherlock finished.

"So, she made her daughters rabbit glow in the dark." Said John.

"Just what the world needs, glow in the dark rabbits." Said Brenna, "It's good to know the British government is spending valuable research funds on something important."

"Probably a fluorescent gene removed and spliced into the specimen." Said Sherlock, "Easy enough to do these days."

"So…" John began, looking at Sherlock.

"So, we know that Dr. Stapleton performs secret genetic experiments on animals. The question is, has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?"

"To be fair, that's a fairly wide field." John commented, after a pause.

"He's got a point." Said Brenna, as they continued to drive down the road.

* * *

**Please read and review. **

**Next chapter we meet Henry Knight, and get to know a little more back story into his character.**


	5. Henry Knight

**Two short chapters on tap for today's update. We get to learn a bit more about Henry Knight, and the background of his parents. I am hoping that it will make what happens to him later in the episode to make a little more sense. Enjoy!**

Henry Knight:

Their next stop was the home of Henry Knight. During the drive, Brenna learned a little more a bit about Henry, and that that he had come to Sherlock to ask for his help regarding the disappearance of his father. When he had been seven years old, Henry had witnessed his father being violently killed and torn apart by what he claimed was a large, black dog with glowing, red eyes. The sight had so traumatized him that he had not been back to Devon since. On the advice of his therapist, Dr. Louise Mortimer, he had returned to try and face his demons.

However, the night when he had returned to the Hollow, he had seen footprints, at the very place where he had seen his father torn apart. The very moment he had seen them, he had experienced a vivid flashback to the night which had forever scarred him. Fearing for his sanity, and hearing something of Sherlock's skills from the media coverage he had been getting over the past few months, he had hoped that the Consulting Detective would be able to give him some answers as to what had actually happened to his father.

So, that's what had brought them to the Devon wilds, and to Henry's rather impressive home. It was a two story stone house that had obviously been a very important part of Grimpen for many years. Even Brenna found herself admiring the architecture of the house as they came up to it.

John, despite himself, gaped in astonishment at the grandeur of the old house. Sherlock, as was usual, probably didn't even notice. When Henry opened the door, we greeted them with shy politeness. "John, Sherlock, I got your message. I'm glad to see you." He noticed Brenna standing there. "Oh, I didn't know you were bringing a friend."

"Henry Knight, my partner, Brenna Ryan." Sherlock introduced.

"A pleasure to meet you." said Brenna, as they shook hands "Sherlock has told me so much about you."

"I hope that's a good sign. I'm sorry; I didn't know Sherlock had a girlfriend he was bringing."

"She's not a girlfriend." Said Sherlock, as though Henry had just insulted her. "She's not superfluous."

"Sherlock means to say that he brought me along because he thought I could be of use. I work with the police, and I had some leave. I just thought I could help out."

This seemed to satisfy Henry and helped to sooth any nerves that might have frayed by Sherlock's earlier rough statement. "Oh, right. Welcome, then."

The three of them went into the house, the inside of which matched the inside in luxury and beauty. John was still somewhat in shock, and asked, "Are you, uh, rich?"

"Yeah." Said Henry, as though it weren't a big deal.

"Ah," said John.

That fact now established, they went into the kitchen, where Henry offered them coffee, but Brenna's attention was drawn to his wine rack. "You have an impressive range of choices here, Henry. Are you a connoisseur?"

"My father was." Said Henry, "He sort of passed it onto me."

"Do you mind?"

Henry gestured that she should help herself, while he brought out the preparations for coffee. Sherlock took his customary two cubes of sugar in his cup of coffee, while John took none. Henry began to tell them that in his recent meetings with his therapist, he had been experiencing strange things. "Coming back to Grimpen has brought back a lot of memories that I repressed when I was a kid. Up until a few days ago, I couldn't remember anything about that night, except for the dog."

"That's a common coping mechanism of the human brain." Said John, "The only way some people can cope with a traumatic incident is by simply repressing it." He looked over at Brenna, who understood exactly what he was talking about. She had pretty much repressed her entire encounter with Moriarty a few months ago. "The only problem with that is that all too often, something causes the repressed memories to come surging to the surface. And when that hapes unexpectedly, they often can't handle it. I saw a lot of soldiers experience that in Afghanistan."

"So, you're beginning to remember again." Said Brenna, "Has anything of value occurred to you?"

"I'm starting to see more images, but they're not making any sense. There are two things, however, that I keep seeing: 'liberty'."

"Liberty." John repeated, as he took out his notebook to write down the words.

"'Liberty' and 'in'. It's just that." He pointed to the sugar and milk. "Are you finished?"

They nodded, and he turned around to put the milk and sugar away. While his back was towards them, John asked Sherlock in a quiet tone. "Mean anything to either of you?"

"Can't say that it does for me." Said Brenna.

"'Liberty in death', isn't that what they say, the only true freedom?"

"Always looking on the bright side of things, aren't we, Sherlock?" Brenna remarked.

Henry turned back to them, and after a few seconds, asked, "So, where do we go from here?"

"Sherlock's got a plan." Said John.

"This ought to be good." Muttered Brenna.

"Yes." Said Sherlock, who looked quite pleased with himself.

"Right." Said Henry.

"We take you back out onto the moor…"

"Okay?" said Henry, who already looked as though he didn't like where this was heading.

"And see if anything attacks you."

This was spoken as though it was the only possibly logical solution to the problem, but it earned him two disbelieving looks from Brenna and John. "What?" said Brenna, not quite sure if she had heard him right.

"That should bring things to a head." Said Sherlock.

"At night?" said Henry, in a slightly terrified voice, and he had gone pale. "You want me to go out there at night?"

"Mmm." Said Sherlock, who obviously hadn't picked up on the fact that this wasn't the best way to handle the conversation.

"That's your plan?" said John, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm. "Brilliant."

"Yes, Sherlock, since when does solving cases involve bonehead ideas?"

"Brenna's right, Sherlock. That's not a plan."

"Listen, you two, if there is a real monster out there, there's only one thing to do: find out where it lives."

"Sherlock, that's the most ridiculous idea you've ever had. We don't even know if-"

But Henry, to their surprise, cut Brenna off. "No, I'll do it." Now it was Henry's turn to be stared at in disbelief. "Look, I am scared to go back out there. I won't deny it. I'm terrified of the idea. But, if it means getting some answers, then its risk I'm willing to take."

"Good, now that's settled." Said Sherlock, "Are you two coming?"

* * *

As there was still an hour till nightfall, the four of them decided that they should probably be getting some dinner. Facing a potentially mythical, man-eating monster in the dead of night on the moor was always easier done a full stomach. There were no places to order in at Grimpen, so the cooking fell to a choice of either Henry or Brenna, who were the only ones who could be said to have anything even resembling cooking skills. As Brenna didn't want to put Henry under any more stress than he already was, she volunteered. However, while Sherlock and John were pouring over a map of Grimpen to learn more about the layout of Dewer's Hollow in relation to Baskerville, Henry actually engaged Brenna in a conversation.

"You think that Sherlock's on the right track with this idea of his?" He asked her.

"One can never really tell what the right track with Sherlock actually implies." Said Brenna, "He's had a lot of crazy ideas like this over the years, but I've never been let down by him."

"You've known him long than, have you?"

"Yes, about three years. We've only been together for about a year and a half, though."

"You could have fooled me. I'm actually surprised that the two of you aren't married."

"What do you mean?"

"Just the way you act around each other. You two have something special. I don't get the idea that Sherlock trusts too many people, but he trusts you absolutely."

Brenna smiled. "I suppose that's true. Sounds like you've got experience with this sort of thing."

"You kind of remind me of my mum and dad. My dad felt that way for her. Always used to say that his life really only began when he met her."

Henry's expression had suddenly become very sad. Despite herself, Brenna felt a touch of kindred sympathy with him. "How old were you when she died?"

"I was only six. Dad and I were even closer after that, until he was… until a year later."

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine what it must have been like to lose both your parents in such a short span of time."

"Especially since both of their deaths were never really explained to me."

"What do you mean? Sherlock told me about… the accident with your dad. What about your mum?"

Henry shook his head. "I really don't know all the details; I was too young to understand at the time. But she worked at Baskerville."

This little detail caught her attention. "Baskerville? Your mother worked there?"

"Yes, she came home from work one day complaining about a bad headache. Three days later, she was gone. My dad was convinced that she had been bitten by some sort of monster they were breeding as Baskerville or been infected with something."

"Was he able to confirm that?"

"Oh, he had no proof, and most people just laughed at him, called him a crazy conspiracy theorist. I'm not sure people believed me when I told them what I saw the day he died. Like father, like son, I suppose."

"Is that why you're so prepared to go out onto the moor's at night, something that obviously frightens you?"

"I have to know what really happened to my dad. I need to know how he died or what killed him. If only for myself." He took a deep breath. "You see, these past few years, I've begun to doubt exactly what I saw that day. I sometimes question whether or not I actually _did_ see a hound. I just want to know that I am not crazy. If I can prove to myself I actually saw a hound, maybe I can finally let it go. I can't expect you to understand, but that's the only way I can explain it."

Brenna looked at him for a moment, before she said, "I actually do. My dad was killed in a car accident about four years ago. The past few months, some evidence has come to light that indicates it might have been a murder attempt. I know what it feels like to be uncertain about the death of a loved one. I also know that I would do a lot in order to get some answers." She didn't mention that her father might actually be alive, and working deep undercover to bring down a psychopathic, international terrorist. She figured that would make the whole thing a little more complicated to mention.

Henry and Brenna looked at each other, and for a moment, they each recognized in the other, a sort of kindred spirit. It made her understand Henry Knight a little better, and why he had contacted Sherlock Holmes in the first place. Not all of Sherlock's clients could touch her personally, but in the face of Henry's story. She found herself hoping that Sherlock would be able to help Henry find some peace.


	6. The Moor

The Moor:

The sun soon set below the horizon. Across the moor, the shadows of night lengthened. The wind whistled and moaned over the flat plains, creating a haunting song that would have sent chills down anyone's spine. It seemed as though there were a touch of the supernatural in the air, blurring the lines between reality and nightmare.

It was a potent night to play tricks upon active imaginations. As they drove along the road, Brenna couldn't help but wonder how active the imaginations of those people riding with her would prove to be. She wasn't really worried about Sherlock, but Henry himself was very fragile. She wasn't quite sure about herself or John. Despite both of them being fairly level-headed such things, but out on the moors, at night, who could tell?

By the time the rover could go no further, the four of them got out and began to walk towards the wooded path that would lead to Dewer's Hollow. Their flashlights were the only light to cut through the darkness, as they shown them along the rock strewn ground. By the time they reached the trees of the forest, full darkness had fallen over the moor. Henry and Sherlock were looking a little ways ahead of Brenna and John who were bringing up the rear.

Brenna was starting to feel a little uneasy about the surroundings. While she didn't really believe in ghost stories, there was still something more than a little unsettling about her current surroundings. That was why she was casting the light of her flashlight all around her, just so that she could an idea of everything that was going on around her.

"You all right?" John asked her, as he noticed her behavior.

"What? Oh, yes." Said Brenna, "As much as I love the moors, I really don't fancy being out on them at night."

Off to their right, there was a loud rustling of leaves and the sound of something moving about in the undergrowth. Both of them turned almost too quickly to shine their flashlights in the direction of the noise, but they could not see anything. "I really can't say I blame you for that." said John.

Brenna was about to reply, when she noticed something, a light that was flashing on and off, at the top of a hill that was a few miles from where they were standing. "John, what's that, over there?"

John glanced in the direction that she was indicating, and his expression showed that he was just as confused as she was as to the sight in front of them. "Do you know what that is?" John asked.

"Haven't the faintest." Said Brenna.

John looked over in the direction that Sherlock and Henry had taken, to get their attention as to this odd phenomenon. "Sherlock?" But Sherlock and Henry had already vanished into the forest.

He looked back at the flashing lights, and began to recognize that there was a pattern to the flashes. "Morse code?" said Brenna, who seemed to have picked it up as well.

"Yeah." Said John. He took out his notebook, and began writing down the letters as they appeared. "U… M… Q… R… A."

"That's what I got too." Said Brenna. Both of them mulled over the message that they had gotten. "U.M.Q.R.A? It doesn't sound like any acronym I've ever heard."

"UMQRA?" said John, trying it as a word. "It doesn't sound like anything either."

"File it away for later." Said Brenna, "Looks like the lights have stopped flashing, so I don't think we'll be getting anything else. Let's catch up with Sherlock and Henry, and make sure that they don't get into trouble."

John, suddenly realizing that Sherlock and Henry were nowhere in sight, decided that would be a good idea. They followed their trail, coming up alongside the perimeter of the Baskerville mine field, which was enclosed by a low barbed wire fence and warning signs.

The forest was little better than the moor when it came to eerie sounds. Any desire for talking seemed to become less and less a good idea, as it felt that any word could call down some strange creature of the night upon them. It was most likely quite stupid, and no doubt Sherlock would consider it an idiotic example of lesser superstitions. As they went deeper into the forest, they began to hear a strange, metallic thrum. They both stopped and John aimed the flashlight in the direction of the sound.

They both did this a few times, before moving on a short pace, but the thrumming sound seemed to follow them. And as the sound repeated, it was interspersed with a sharp pinging sound. It was a rather disconcerting sound, but it was soon revealed that the sound was nothing more than a rusty old oil drum, which had been lying beneath some undergrowth. The water was dripping onto the drum from the tree above.

John and Brenna glanced at each other, and sighed with relief, both of them feeling a little silly for being so jumpy about it. However, no sooner had this thought occurred to them, than they heard something else, and this could not be so easily explained. It was a massive shadow, that moved through the undergrowth at such speed that they weren't even able to see what it was, only that it was big, really, really big.

After this, they heard a forlorn, anguished howl cut through the night. More than anything else they had imagined or heard that night, this one sound was enough to send chills down the spine of both Brenna and John. It was the first real proof that they had there was something very real stalking the moors at night.

"John, Sherlock and Henry must have gotten to the Hollow by now. We have to get to them." Said Brenna.

John was not going to argue with Brenna on this point. The two of them began to run through the fog of the woods. Another long howl broke through the silence, and they changed direction to follow it. Soon enough, they saw Sherlock and Henry coming through the woods, from the direction of the Hollow.

Henry was badly shaken, terrified and shaking from head to foot. His eyes were wide and rolling, an anguished expression on his face. Despite her sympathy for his situation, Brenna had almost suspected that this would happen if they followed through with Sherlock's plan. It was not a surprise to her. What was a surprise was Sherlock himself. There was an expression on his face that she had never seen before; an expression of stormy darkness on his face. She didn't know how to describe how he was acting. On edge didn't even begin to describe it. It looked as though he were trying to restrain himself from breaking into a run.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" said Brenna, as she ran up to him.

"Yes, of course, I am." Barked Sherlock in reply. He didn't look at her, but kept his eye fixed firmly ahead.

"Did you hear that?" John asked, in reference to the ghostly howl.

"We saw it." Said Henry, "We _saw_ it."

"The Hound? Henry, are you sure?" Brenna asked.

"No." said Sherlock, sharply, before Henry could answer. "I didn't see anything."

Henry could not believe what he had just heard, and he rushed up to Sherlock in indignation. "What? What are you talking about?"

"I didn't. See. Anything." Sherlock growled through clenched teeth. No matter what anyone else could have said to try and convince him, it was clear that he was going to keep vehemently denying that anything had happened back at the Hollow.

But Brenna could clearly see that something _had _happened, no matter how much Sherlock wanted to say it hadn't. He was desperately trying to deny something that was impossible to deny. Something had caused him to lose control, but what it was Brenna couldn't even begin to guess.

* * *

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	7. The Deduction of Fear

**Boy, this scene was a little difficult to write. The big deduction really was a challenge to write out, even if it is one of my favorite scenes from the second series. Enjoy!**

The Deduction of Fear:

The return to Grimpen brought no change in the situation for Henry and Sherlock. Indeed, their condition only seemed to grow worse. Henry himself was so close to a break down that John had to go with him into the house in order to make sure that he would be all right on his own for the rest of the night.

As for Sherlock, Brenna did not know what to make of him, only that it made her very nervous for his well bringing. He refused to answer any questions that were put to him. He remained stone faced and rigid. However, the look in his eyes was enough for Brenna to see that something had happened out on the moors, something which had shaken him to his very core.

When they arrived back at the Cross Keys, the very first thing that Sherlock did was order a rather substantial scotch at the bar, before retreating to the back of the pub, and gazing fixedly into the fire. Brenna was worried. She knew Sherlock's disposition. The longer he denied his feelings, the more in danger he was of spiraling out of control. And an out of control Sherlock was never good for the general area.

She was relived when she saw John coming back into the pub. She hurried up to him at the bar as he was ordering a drink. "John, you're back. I'm so glad."

"Why? What's the matter?"

"It's Sherlock." She pointed over to where he was sitting. "He hasn't said a word since we got back, hardly even moved. And he's drinking."

"Drinking? Sherlock hardly ever drinks."

"I know. The only time he really ever does it is when he's out with me on a special occasion. I don't know what's going on with him right now, but I don't like it."

John looked closely at Sherlock. "He looks exactly like Henry did when I left him. He had to have seen something, Brenna. Otherwise, he wouldn't be acting like this. He doesn't put on panic attacks simply to get attention."

"Panic attacks?"

"All the symptoms are there. Sherlock's breathing is short, his hands are shaking, I'm sure that if I were to take his pulse, it would be racing."

"Than we have to find out what he saw, or he'll only get worse."

"Considering how difficult it is to get Sherlock to open up on a god day, that will not be easy."

"We have to try though, John. We're all he's got right now, after all."

The two of them came back over to Sherlock. He made no move or glance to acknowledge their presence, just continued to stare fixedly into the fire. "I just left Henry." Said John, "He is in a pretty bad way. He's manic, totally convinced there's some sort of mutant super-dog roaming the moors. And there isn't, though, is there? 'Cause if people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we'd know."

"In my experience, something like that would be for sale. That's just how the market works." Said Brenna, attempting to make a joke.

At this point, Sherlock would have normally launched into a stream of deduction, deconstructing everything that he had observed and figuring how they could fit into a coherent pattern. However, he made absolutely no response. Instead, he kept staring numbly into the flames, his mind in a different and disturbing place. Brenna and John exchanged glances. This was most likely going to be more difficult than either of them had first thought.

"Listen, Sherlock, while John and I were on the moor, we saw someone signaling." Said Brenna.

"Yeah, right." Said John, catching onto what Brenna was saying, as he got out his notebook. "Morse, I guess it's Morse. Doesn't seem to make much sense. U, M, Q, R, A. Does that mean anything to…?"

John trailed off, seeing that Sherlock was blinking his eyes rapidly and repeatedly, as though he were trying to dislodge some terrible image from before him. He had also started breathing sharply. All of them were signs of distress and barely contained panic.

"Okay, we should probably stick with what we know for certain." Said Brenna, trying again. "There are footprints, because Henry found them, so did the tour guide. Even had a plaster cast to prove it. We also all heard something that sounded like a howling dog. I'm wondering if there might be an actual wild dog roaming this part of the countryside. That would explain the recent slew of sightings."

"That doesn't explain why it would have red eyes, or how Henry could have seen something like it killing his father twenty years ago." Said John, "Still it might be a good place to start, by just looking for someone that has big dog."

This finally caused Sherlock to speak. But his voice was completely different from the Sherlock that the two of them had come to know. Gone was the confidence and superiority of someone who was always right, and replacing it was a tone riddled with uncertainty, anxiety and a whispering terror that not all of Sherlock's years of logic could silence.

"Henry's right."

"What?" said John, taken aback by this sudden confession.

"I saw it too." Sherlock's voice was shaking, barely under control. "I saw it too, John."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" said Brenna, trying to sound gentle and soothing for Sherlock's sake, "What did you see?"

"A hound, out there is the Hollow. A gigantic hound." Sherlock's words were chopped and staccato. It was a challenge for him to speak. Even as he said the words, his body was gripped by another attack of barely concealed panic. His face was contorted with emotions to strong for him to conceal. It seemed as though he were in complete agony.

Both John and Brenna could see that Sherlock was close to a breaking point. They needed to stop things before they got to that point. "Look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this, okay?" said John, speaking in a voice that he hoped was calm enough to bring Sherlock down to earth once more. "I mean you, of all people can't just… Let's just stick with what we know, right? Stick with the facts."

Sherlock glanced over at them, an utterly chilling look on his face and his voice barely above a whisper when he spoke. "Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true."

John's brow furrowed in confusion, as he tried to wrap his mind around that statement. "What does that even mean?" He asked.

Sherlock didn't answer directly. Neither Brenna nor John could have guessed half of what was swirling through his mind. Terror, uncertainty and doubt were crowding in upon him, one leading into another in an endless cycle within Sherlock's mind. He had not felt like this, this powerless since… since... no; he couldn't allow that one memory to come to him, not when he was feeling like this. He would never be able to control himself.

Sherlock had made an art of ignoring his inner demons. Sometimes he could deceive even himself into believing that he had them no more. However, tonight, the more he tried to tell himself that, the more those voices whispered in his mind.

Unconsciously, he reached out and took the glass from the table in front of him. It was only then that he realized that his hands were shaking terribly. He observed this with an almost sickened fascination, before he said, with a desperately ironic laugh, "Look at me, I'm afraid, John. Afraid." He took a sip of the alcohol, trying o concentrate more on the way it burned down his throat than on his still screaming emotions. "Always been able to keep myself distant, divorce myself from feeling." He held up the glass he was holding, his hand still shaking badly. "But look you see, my body's betraying me. Interesting, yes, emotions. Always the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."

Sherlock's tone had become increasingly panicked and terrified. "Okay, Spock," said John, "Just take it easy. You've been a bit wired lately, you know you have. I think you've just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up."

Sherlock's eyes came up, and speared John. "Worked up?" He repeated, in strained incredulity.

"Sherlock, it was dark and scary." Said Brenna, gently. "We all felt a little shaken up. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's perfectly normal."

But Sherlock had spent almost a lifetime holding himself above the normal impulses of the world. The very insinuation that he was anything else ground against his already shaken nerves. Neither of them understood. Sherlock felt like he was entirely on his own. And that was just fine. He didn't need their help.

"Me? There is nothing wrong with me." Said

But Sherlock could not keep lying to himself. The memories, the emotions were becoming to strong for him to deny. He had been trying to keep them silent ever since he had returned from the Hollow, but they suddenly reared and broke loose. The swirling cloud of emotions tightened around him, suffocating him, blinding him. He found himself reliving it again, over and over, that one awful moment when his life had changed forever, when he had been utterly powerless to save the one he cared for most.

Sherlock's breathing grew even more labored and tortured, close to the point of hyperventilating. He pressed his fingers into his temples, trying to get the memories under control. He wanted to scream, but he had no voice. Stop! Stop hurting! STOP!

In the face of Sherlock's tortured expression, John and Brenna knew that they needed to do something before they lost him completely. "Sherlock." said John.

Sherlock didn't hear them. He was trembling, his breathing shallow and quick. He just wanted it all to stop! Just be quiet, everyone, and it would all go back to the way it was before. Everyone, stop talking!

"Sherlock, please talk to us." Said Brenna, as she reached out a hand to lay on one of his arms.

But it was too late. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, wild and unhinged, and he practically screamed, "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

The outburst caused several of the nearby people in the pub to turn and look at them with questioning expressions. Sherlock paid them absolutely to attention. He was completely hysterical by this point, desperately searching for something he could grasp onto. "You want me to prove it, yes? We're look for a dog, yes, a great big dog, that's your brilliant theory. Cherez le chien. Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start?" His eye lighted upon a pair of diners across from them in the pub, a man of about forty, with a much older woman. "How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer's yes."

"Yes," said John, uncertain as to where this was going, but not liking the savage, relentless tone in Sherlock's voice as he went into full deduction mode.

"She's got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we're looking for."

"Sherlock, for god's sake, this isn't helping anyone." Said Brenna.

But Sherlock plowed on. He had to know that he could still find some logic in the world. The only way he knew how to do that was through deduction. He was to far gone to realize or even care that he was grasping at straws. He rarely wasted effort by deducing complete strangers he would never meet again to within an inch of their lives. He was that desperate.

"Look at the jumper he's wearing. Hardly worn. Clearly he's uncomfortable in it. Maybe it's because of the material; more likely the hideous pattern, suggesting it's a present, probably Christmas. So he wants into his mother's good books. Why? Almost certainly money. He's treating her to a meal, but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he's trying to economize on his own food."

"Well, maybe he's just not hungry."

"No," said Sherlock, his words coming out so frenetically and fast that it was difficult for them to even keep up. "No, small plate. Starter. He's practically licked it clean. She's nearly finished her Pavlova. If she's treated him, he'd have had as much as he wanted. He's hungry all right, and not well off. You can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes." Before John could even interrupt, Sherlock anticipated it, imitating John's voice mockingly. "'How'd do you know she's his mother?' Who else would give him a Christmas present like that? Well, it could be an aunt or an older sister, but mother's more likely. Now, he was a fisherman. Scarring pattern on his hands, very distinctive: fish hooks. They're all quite old now, which suggests he's been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he's turned to his widowed mother for help. 'Widowed?' Yes, obviously. She's got a man's wedding ring on a chain around her neck, clearly her husband's and to big for her finger. She's well-dressed, but her jewelry's cheap. She could afford better, but she's kept it; it's sentimental. Now, the dog, tiny little hairs all over the leg from where it gets a little it to friendly, but no hairs above the knee, suggesting it's a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact, it is, a West Highland terrier called Whisky. 'How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?' 'Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name and that's not cheating, that's listening. I use my senses, John, unlike some people. So, you see I am fine. In fact, I've never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone."

Sherlock snarled out those words in such an angry, cold tone that even John knew there was noting he could do. He could do nothing for Sherlock, if he completely rejected all attempts that he put forward to help him.

"Yeah, okay, okay. And why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

"I don't have friends." Said Sherlock, scornfully. Friendship was to close to loving. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to consider the rawness of his emotions, so he was trying to close them off altogether.

But pushing John away hurt the army doctor more than he was intending. John had believed that he and Sherlock had developed a rather solid friendship over the last few months. When Brenna had been kidnapped by Moriarty, Sherlock had told John that there was no one he would entrust with her safety more than him. Considering how deeply Sherlock was involved with Brenna, John had known that was incredibly important.

And to hear Sherlock so callously reject him as a friend so soon after that event stung. He knew that Sherlock probably didn't mean it, but it still hurt. "Yeah? I wonder why?" with those last biting words, John got up and stalked out of the pub.

"What the hell was that about?" hissed Brenna, when John had left.

"What do you mean?" asked Sherlock, still looking tense and terrified. "If you're referring to John's childish and irrational tantrum at my clearly laying out the facts for him, I don't see what you're snapping at me for."

"John, throwing a tantrum? Oh, that is rich, Sherlock, that is very rich. Especially coming from you, who look like your just coming out of psychotic trance brought about by drugs, and is clearly not in your right mind, I can understand why you thought that John was throwing a tantrum."

"Brenna, why are you taking John's side in this argument? I honestly expected more from you."

"Sherlock, there is no argument and there is no side to this. John and I were just trying to help you."

"I don't need you help." Sherlock snarled, angrily, "I don't need anybody's help. Just leave me alone. Why can't everyone just leave me alone?"

"Fine, you want me to leave you alone? I'll do just that. Don't expect me to be offering you any comfort the next time something like this happens. I can already see that it's a waste of time trying to help someone who clearly had no idea of whether or not he's feeling anything half the time."

The fact that he wouldn't let her in hurt as much as it had for John. She got to her feet and stalked away, leaving Sherlock alone by the fire. Had she paused to look back at him, she might have seen a brief flicker of something besides fear or obstinate anger pass over Sherlock's face. It was regret, the regret which always occurred to him after it was too late to repair the damage that he unthinkingly had caused for the people he cared for the most.

* * *

Brenna left the pub, her mind whirling with all the conflicting emotions that she had experienced that night. She was not only angry at Sherlock, she was mostly just exhausted. She had been through a rough night, physically and mentally. So much for a restful end to her holiday.

She sank down on one of the benches outside the pub, and took several deep breaths to clear her head. It was while she was in the process of doing this that Dr. Bob Frankland pulled up in front of the Cross Keys pub. She wasn't exactly surprised to see him. According to Henry (who considered him an uncle), Frankland was a native of Grimpen. When he passed by her, he stopped and said with a smile, "Oh, Brenna Ryan, right? You were with Sherlock Holmes today at Baskerville?"

"Right, that would be me."

Frankland's smile faltered, when he saw the look on her face. "You all right, Miss Ryan? You look quite done in."

"I feel done in; I just spent the last few hours running around on the moor."

"Really? You weren't scared that the Hound would get you? Not that I believe such a silly rumor, mind you. But still you never can be sure."

"No, we were trying to help Henry."

"Henry went out onto the moor at night? He once more swore to me that nothing would ever be able to induce him to do that."

"Well, Sherlock managed to convince him to do it. He hoped that it might convince Henry that there really wasn't a Hound or that if there was something out there, it would reveal itself when Henry appeared at the Hollow."

It was at this point in the conversation that Brenna noticed something rather odd in the way in Frankland began to act. She noticed that his eyes had taken on a weary gleam, and his next questions would strike her later as being very probing, almost as if he were trying to figure out exactly what Brenna knew. "The Hollow? You took Henry to the Hollow? What happened?"

"Nothing, at least… to be quite honest, I'm not really sure what happened. John and I got separated from Henry and Sherlock, so we never actually got to the Hollow. We all did hear something, a howling."

"Most likely a wild dog." Said Frankland, "We have them around these parts, but they generally steer clear of people."

"I don't think it did this time. I'm fairly certain that both Sherlock and Henry saw something. We just don't what happened."

"What makes you say that?"

"They both looked as though they had seen a ghost, pale, trembling. Poor Henry was coming out of the worst of it. I thought that he would collapse from sheer panic. I have an awful feeling that if we don't do something to help him soon, his mind could become permanently unhinged."

Brenna saw a look pass over Frankland's race when she said this, an expression of… relief? That made no sense. If Frankland was as close and concerned for Henry's welfare as he said he was, why on earth should he be relieved? Wondering if she could pursue that line of thought, Brenna asked, "Do you mind, Dr. Frankland, if I ask you something, for the good of the case?"

The relief on Frankland's face vanished, replaced with his previous concerned expression. "Of course, anything I can do to help?"

"Well, Henry told me that his mother worked at Baskerville. Did you know her?"

"Oh, yes. Elaine, my protégé in many ways. Very gifted virologist. Might have gone very far if not for her untimely death."

"Henry told me that his father believed she had been killed because of her work at Baskerville. Is there any truth to that?"

Brenna saw Frankland's throat bob twice, as he swallowed hard, a clear sign that he was trying to keep himself under control. When he did speak, she was able to detect the barest hint of a strain in his voice. "Elaine was smart and passionate, but she was, unfortunately, to eager. She tried an experiment that was beyond her ability. She accidentally infected herself with whatever pathogen she was working on. It was a tragedy, and of course, there was an investigation. No foul play was found, but that wasn't good enough for Henry Knight Senior. He always was convinced that there was something else, some conspiracy. He even asked me to look in on it."

"Was there any, foul play, I mean?"

"Miss Ryan the work we do at Baskerville is highly sensitive, and it does carry its own degree of danger with it. Accidents such as those that occurred with Elaine do happen, unfortunately. However, regardless of what the conspiracy mongers might think, there is nothing nefarious about what we do at Baskerville. In fact, what we do helps to protect people. It's a pity more of the population can't accept that.

"And even after you weren't able to find anything suspicious about Elaine's death, you and his father were still friends?"

Frankland shrugged. "Henry and I simply agreed that we wouldn't speak of work after that. It actually worked out quite well."

Brenna doubted that friendships where secrets were kept and pain concealed, were friendships on the road to disaster. However, she didn't think that she would get anywhere with Frankland if she pointed that out. "I see, thank you for your time, Dr. Frankland."

"Whatever I can do to help." Said Frankland, waving as he went into the pub.

Once he was gone, Brenna surreptitiously took out her phone and dialed Anthea's number. Even at the rather late hour, Anthea still answered on the third ring. "Well, if it isn't my body double."

"Hello to you too, Anthea."

"Would you care to explain what you were doing this afternoon? Sherlock impersonating Mycroft? You pretending to be me? All three of you breaking into a secret army base?"

"We pulled it off, didn't we? And I hardly think that we're going to be a threat that you need to worry about."

She could practically hear Anthea roll her eyes. "Mycroft has been having his ear chewed out all afternoon by officials waiting to know what he was doing in Baskerville. What is he supposed to say? That it was really his brother?"

"Look, I can imagine that it's not exactly convenient for either of you. But I can't talk about that right now. I need to ask you for something."

Anthea sighed deeply. "Of course, you do. What is it?"

"You're agreeing? Just like that? I thought I would have to bribe you."

"I didn't say anything about agreeing, only that I would hear you out."

"There's the Anthea I know. Well, I need all the information that you can send me about a Dr. Robert Frankland. He's a virologist who works at Baskerville."

"Why on earth do you want information like that?"

"He's just someone that I would like to know more about. Please, Anthea, a lot could depend on it."

There was a moment of silence, and Anthea finally said, "All right, I'll see what I can dig up. It might take awhile. Even for someone like me, getting information on people who work at Baskerville can be difficult."

"Fine. Thanks, Anthea. I owe you one."

"You owe me two, actually, for this and for this afternoon. I'll let you know the price when you get back."

She hung up, and Brenna wryly wondered just how much of her soul Anthea was going to be asking for this time as she headed back into the pub.

* * *

**Please read and review.**


	8. Comfort

**In this chapter, we get a little glimpse into Sherlock's back story. Or at least, the way I imagined him turning out. This is obviously completely AU from the show's continuity. And yes, I have seen the third season of Sherlock. I won't spoil it for anyone, but I will sum it up in a single word: AWESOME!**

**Anyway, I guess one of the pleasures of fan fiction, is being able to come up with different ideas. I hope that you like this one just as much as the one in the show. **

Comfort:

When Brenna headed back up to her room and opened the door, a part of her was not surprised that Sherlock was sitting on small sofa, with Lily's head on his lap.

He had been petting her, but looked up at Brenna when she came into the room; the two of them stared at each other for a few seconds, in silence. Neither of them really knew what to say in the face of everything they had faced that night. Finally, Brenna said, "You know that you're taking an awful big risk coming into my room like this, especially after what you said to me, not to mention John."

Sherlock looked away from her, clearly stung by the reminder. "I… I am sorry."

The words were spoken hesitantly. He wasn't used to apologizing, and he knew there was a very good chance that it would make absolutely no difference whatsoever. Still, he felt that he needed to make some effort. "I shouldn't have said those things. I didn't mean to. You do have every reason to kick me out, but I just didn't want to be alone." It was difficult, opening up to her like this. Even after all this time, Sherlock didn't like having to admit that he needed someone, and sometimes needed them quite desperately.

Brenna took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, before saying, "All right, you can stay with me tonight?"

Sherlock's head turned to face her and he seemed honestly surprised. "Really? Just like that? I thought for sure you wouldn't be willing to give me a chance."

"Under ordinary circumstances, maybe I wouldn't, but to be quite honest, I'm really too exhausted to be angry at you, Sherlock." She went over to him and kissed him gently on the forehead. "We've both been through a lot tonight. I think we both acted in ways we normally would have as a result of that." She went over to the suitcase and pulled out her pajamas. She noticed that Sherlock was staring at her in an almost regretful manner. "What?"

"Nothing, I was… Well, just looking forward to that surprise you told me about this afternoon."

Brenna managed a rueful smile. "I think you've had enough stimulation for one day, Sherlock. The way you were behaving earlier, it almost looked like you were coming off of some sort of weird high. Besides, I want to be able to enjoy what I had planned. Don't worry, there will be other nights when I'll know I have your full attention." She disappeared into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later, to see Sherlock putting Lily back in her kennel. "I'm glad to see that you turned to someone for comfort."

"I was merely experimenting. It's a well-known fact that stroking a dog produces a calming effect. I was merely seeing if there was any truth to it."

"And is there?"

"Well, I must admit that I don't feel as on edge as I did half and hour ago."

Brenna smiled, as she pulled back the bed covers. "There, see? Lily really is good for something, whatever you might say."

Sherlock merely huffed in response, and got in bed beside her. He watched as he went through her normal bed time routine, and right when she was about to turn out the light, he suddenly said, "It wasn't just the fact that I saw the Hound. It was what I heard when I saw it."

Brenna, completely caught off-guard by the unexpected admission, turned to look at his in surprise. "You mean, tonight, at the Hollow?" He nodded. "What do you mean you heard something? Even John and I heard some sort of howling."

"That's not what I'm talking about." Sherlock said, in a quiet voice. "I heard something quite different."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Brenna asked, after a pause.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and leaned back against the headboard of the bed. He closed his eyes, trying to find the words to express the roiling in his mind. "I didn't just see something I can't explain rationally, Brenna. That's almost the worst of it. But there was something which I wasn't expecting at all. When I went into the Hollow tonight, I… remembered things that I would much rather forget. Things which I have never been able to fully delete."

"What did you remember?" Brenna asked, "What did you hear tonight?"

Sherlock was silent for a long time. The same tortured look which she had seen that evening in the pub reappeared on his face, only it was evident this time that it had to do with a very specific memory. "You remember how I told you that my father was the one who blinded my mother?"

"What I didn't tell you was that I saw him do it, and that I saw him shoot himself in the head after he had done it."

The shock of this confession could not be a described. In a blinding moment of clarity, several things which had never been quite clear to her suddenly all made sense. Justine's reluctance to speak of the magnitude of her husband's death, Sherlock's haunted expression whenever he mentioned his past, and his desire to not mention it altogether. In Sherlock's confession, she saw, at least in part, why he had grown into the man he had become. "Sherlock, I…I don't know what to say to that." She stammered, at last.

"You don't have to say anything. Right now, I just need someone to listen. You know, I'm sure, how my mother found out about my father's affair. He thought that he had threatened me enough to keep me quiet. But when my mother managed to learn the truth from me, she said that she would take care of everything, and that he would never harm me again.

"A few hours later, I woke up to the sound of arguing downstairs. It was my mother and father. I still don't know what made me get up and go downstairs. If I had, it might have been so different. But, I went anyway. When I get to the doorway of the living room, I saw the two of them, arguing violently. I saw father grab mother and start hitting and punching her on the head. I couldn't move, I was so terrified. I knew perfectly well that there was nothing I could do. I was powerless.

"Father ended up beating her so severely that her eyes were permanently damaged. To this day, I can still hear her screams."

"That's what you heard when you saw the Hound?"

Sherlock nodded, clear agony showing on his face. "Yes, and it made me feel the same way, Brenna. I felt powerless against the fear, and I doubted myself and my own abilities."

"Is that you're afraid of most, than?" Brenna asked. Sherlock looked away, clearly unwilling to answer, though they both knew it was in the affirmative.

"My father saw me standing in the doorway. He knew that I had seen everything. And he could already hear the rest of the house being stirred because of what he had done. I think it caused him to snap. He ran out of the room just as I went in. I rushed to my mother to see if there was anything I could do. It was only there that I saw my father reach for the gun and aim it his head." Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. "I closed my eyes, so I didn't actually see the aftermath. I did hear the bullet going off though, and the next I saw of my father, he was lying dead in the next room."

Brenna was silent, trying to process all that she had heard, and feeling like she was failing miserably. Finally, she ventured to ask. "Why did he kill himself?"

"Sherlock, I won't say I'm sorry. I know that you would think that it was empty words. But I hope you know that I'm not unaffected by it."

Sherlock put one arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer to him. He had never told this to anyone, for fear that their sympathy would be cloying. However, with Brenna, he somehow knew how much she genuinely would have done anything to take away his pain. For some reason, that meant more to him than he had ever thought possible.

"I suppose mother told you the rest. I was so traumatized that I wasn't able to speak for days afterward. I didn't have anyone to turn to. Mother was either unconscious or recovering, so I felt I couldn't trouble her with me own feelings. And Mycroft… you can guess about Mycroft."

"So, you weren't able to talk to anyone about what you had seen, you just kept it all inside. It was easier for you than having to face it."

Sherlock didn't respond, merely weaving his fingers through her soft hair. He knew that she was right. He also knew that it had made him the man he had become, whether for the better or for the worse. The terror, the powerlessness, the sheer grief he had felt at that moment had been utterly overwhelming for a ten-year-old, even one who had been of above average intelligence as Sherlock had been. It had just been easier to block the emotions out. If he couldn't feel them, he wouldn't have to deal with them. And as relationships of any kind meant emotions, he had begun to avoid those to, until it simply became second nature.

But then, the green-eyed, blond-haired thief had come along. One by one, she had broken through every barrier he had though he had so perfectly around his heart, until she had ensnared him, never to let go, and he had found to his utter surprise, he had no desire that she should ever do so.

That was why, when Brenna next spoke he found himself listening. "Sherlock, you are a good man. You want so desperately to control everything yourself, that I think you sometimes forget that you don't have to face the world alone. You aren't that scared, little boy. You do have people who are willing to help you. You've got me, you've got John. And though you may not wish to see it, there are a lot of people who care for you."

Sherlock was silent, and Brenna really couldn't determine what type of impact her words were making. "Look, you don't have to think of them as friends. All I'm saying is that you have allies, Sherlock. You simply have to be willing to look for them."

"And I'll always have you, won't I?" The question was asked uncertainly, almost a little desperately. Sherlock had had so many of his foundations rocked to the core that night. As his reeling doubts finally began to settle, he found himself clinging to the things that he knew he could rely on.

Brenna smiled gently and said, "I'll be here, Sherlock, I promise. Now, we should get some sleep. I think that we could both use it.

Not even Sherlock, despite his professed aversion to the boredom of being unconscious for eight hours, could deny the physical and mental stimulation of the last few hours had left him utterly exhausted. Sleep actually sounded very attractive right now, especially if he would be doing it in Brenna's arms.

**Please read and review. **


	9. Apologies and Questions

**Sorry for the slight delay between updates. I have just moved across country and started a new job, so life has been slightly hectic. However, I have a bit more a routine down, so hopefully, the chapters will be more regular. Enjoy!**

Apologies and Questions:

The next morning, Brenna was stirred by the sound of hr phone ringing. She realized that Sherlock wasn't beside her in the bed. A quick look at the caller ID revealed that it was indeed him calling her.

"Sherlock, where are-" That was all she was able to get out as Sherlock abruptly cut her off.

"Brenna, I love you. You may be almost as smart as I am." He sounded… better. He sounded like the Sherlock she knew, just when he had made some sort of big break-through in a case. It was also apparent usual brand of complement was also going strong.

"Um… thanks? I don't know how to respond to such a heartfelt complement. What are you walking about?"

"You mentioned it last night. I never would have even considered it. But I think you may be right. I just need a way to test it."

"Sherlock, please. Stop talking a mile a minute, and spare a thought for us lowly mortals. What exactly did I mention last night that's got you all excited right now?"

"You said that my behavior reminded you of someone coming off of a drug high. It suddenly all made sense to me this morning. Henry and I were drugged last night."

"That would explain a lot about your extreme behavior. What are you going to do now?"

"I need to test it in order to be sure. I'm on my way back to Henry's, but I'll be back soon."

"Wait, you're on your way to Henry's. Why?-"

"No time to explain, Brenna. I'll meet you soon. I wouldn't have thought of it but for you. You're incredible."

Sherlock hung up rather abruptly, leaving Brenna more than a little overwhelmed. She had no idea what Sherlock was planning. It was better, though, than the way he had been acting last night. She knew that Sherlock would be giving her answers when he was good and ready.

Knowing that she wouldn't be able to get anymore sleep, Brenna got up and took a quick shower, before getting dressed. She brought Lily out of her crate, and put the leash on her. Lily was practically hopping up and down from pent up energy, and she was quite excited to be going for a much needed walk.

About three quarters of an hour later, Brenna and Lily had completed their circuit of Grimpen, and were passing by the church graveyard. There, she noticed John was sitting on the steps of the war memorial, looking through the notes he had taken on the case so far. He still looked a little put out from the exchange he and Sherlock had had the previous morning.

"John," said Brenna, as she and Lily entered the graveyard and approached him.

John looked up at the greeting and smiled a little. "Morning, Brenna. How are you doing, after everything that happened last night?" Lily hurried up to John, and John reached down to stroke her head.

"Fine, I think." She paused for a moment, before she said, "Sherlock stayed in my room last night, just in case you were wondering where he was."

John nodded, somewhat tightly. "Well, that's good to know. Probably got a better rest there than he would have with me. How was he?"

"He was apologetic. I think that he feels terrible about what he said last night, John. I'm not trying to excuse his words, but I don't think he was himself."

"I know, I know that." said John, "But it's also not something I can't very easily forget."

"No, I guess not. Just try not to be to hard on him." There was a somewhat awkward silence, before Brenna decided to change the subject. "What about that Morse code we found last night. Do you think it means anything?"

At this, John turned a slight shade of red and coughed. "It, uh, doesn't mean anything, Brenna. We were mistaken."

Brenna's brow furrowed. "Are you sure?"

"Uh, yeah. I saw it last night after I left the pub. I followed it out onto the moor, and… uh… well, it was a bunch of cars with people…"

"Ah, I see." Said Brenna, "Well, that must have been a little embarrassing."

"A little bit, yeah."

"That also takes away any sort of lead we could have gotten. I hope that we can get something soon, or Henry might get even worse." Brenna's attention was suddenly drawn to the approach of Sherlock from the opposite side of the grave yard. "Well, speak of the devil. Here comes Sherlock."

John looked over to see him and said, "Oh, great."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No, it might be good to have a little ballast between me and Sherlock."

Sherlock came through the gate, and came down the path towards them. John put away his notebook as he came up and stopped a few feet in front of them. There was an uncomfortable silence between them, and Sherlock was at least mindful enough to look somewhat awkward himself. "Hello, Brenna." He said, thinking it would be easier to get through to her first.

"Morning, Sherlock. Did you get what you wanted from Henry?"

"Uh, yes. I think so." He looked over at John, who had not made eye contact with him yet. "Did you, er, get anywhere with that Morse code?"

"No." said John, as he stepped down from the war memorial and began walking down the path.

Sherlock tried following him. "U, M, Q, R, A, wasn't it?" Sherlock tried sounding them as a word. "UMQRA."

"Nothing." Said John.

"U.M.Q…"

"Look, forget it. It's… I thought I was onto something. I wasn't."

"Sure?" said Sherlock.

"Yeah."

"How about Louise Mortimer? Did you get anywhere with her?"

"Wait, Louise Mortimer? Isn't that Henry's psychiatrist?" asked Brenna, "Why were you talking to her last night?"

"I was doing Sherlock a favor. And before you ask why, let's just she was… attractive. Besides, it was a dead end."

"Too bad. Did you get any information?"

John smiled somewhat sarcastically, and glanced back at Sherlock, but he didn't actually stop walking away from him. "You being funny now?"

"Thought it might break the ice, a bit." He glanced over at Brenna and asked her in a whisper, "Isn't that what people do?"

Brenna could only smile and shake her head.

"Funny doesn't suit you." said John, "I'd stick to ice."

Sherlock swallowed hard, feeling guilty about his unthinking words of the night before. The memory of it also caused some of the terror he had felt to rear its head once more. "John." He said, trying again, and this time making no attempt to hide his pain.

"It's fine." Said John, tightly.

"No, wait. What happened last night, something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before."

"Yes, you said: fear." Said John, "Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said.

Sherlock grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him back around to face him. "No, no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."

This did seem to catch John's attention. "You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster."

"No, I can't believe that. But I did see it, so the question is: how? How?"

But John was still not willing to forgive Sherlock that easily. ""Yes. Yeah, right, good. So, you've got something to go on, then? Good luck with that."

He once more turned and walked away. Sherlock honestly had no idea what he was supposed to do now. He somehow had to get John to actually listen to him, and the only way he could do that was by somehow reversing what he had said the night before. "Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it." John stopped, and looked back at him. "I don't have friends. I've just got one."

Sherlock meant every word, but even when John seemed to take this in after a moment, he still seemed to be angry with Sherlock. "Right."

With a quick turn and march that was no doubt an echo of his army days, John once more walked away from Sherlock. Sherlock looked back at Brenna, a thoroughly confused expression on his face. "What do I do?" said Sherlock, "What should I do? I thought that would work?"

"Well, don't just let him get away from you. Keep after him. Do what you do with me."

Sherlock's confusion only seemed to grow. "You mean, engaging in passionate bouts of angry sex in order to make up?"

"No, of course not. I'm talking about groveling."

"Oh, well, why didn't you say so?"

Sherlock was still trying to figure what he should say to John as he turned back, when suddenly he realized something. His eyes lit up, and he rushed after John, calling out to him, "John? John! You are amazing! You are fantastic!"

John, without stopping, called back to him. "Yes, all right! You don't have to overdo it."

Brenna, who really didn't know what had just happened, hurried after Sherlock and John, wondering what had gotten into Sherlock's head this time. They had exited the graveyard by this point, and were on the road back to the Inn. Sherlock had overtaken John, and was now walking backwards in front of him. "You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable."

"Cheers." Said John, who was starting to ease up on Sherlock, a bit. However, as his mind hurried to translate what Sherlock had just said, he found himself suddenly confused. "What?"

"I think Sherlock was trying to pay you a compliment wrapped in an insult." Said Brenna.

Sherlock turned around to walk beside the two of them, taking out his notebook and beginning to write in it as he went. "Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others."

"Oh, wow, Sherlock. That's certainly an improvement."

"She's right, Sherlock. You were saying 'sorry' a minute ago. Don't spoil it. Go on: what have I done that's so bloody stimulating?"

Sherlock stopped in front of them, and showed what he had just written in his notebook. He had written down the word **HOUND.**

"Yeah?" said John.

"But what if it's not a word? What if it is individual letters?" While he had been speaking, he had been making some adjustments to the word on the page. This time the word had become an acronym to read **H.O.U.N.D.**

"You think it's some sort of acronym?" John asked.

"And if it is, what would that mean to the case?" Brenna asked.

Sherlock shook his head as he put his notebook back. "Absolutely no idea, but…"

He trailed off when he suddenly the familiar face of Greg Lestrade standing by the bar inside the Cross Keys. His presence, unexpected and uninvited, caused a rather typical Sherlock reaction. "What the hell are you doing here?' He demanded brusquely, as he stalked into the pub.

"Well, nice to see you too." Replied Lestrade, with good-natured sarcasm. "I'm on holiday, would you believe?"

"No, I wouldn't." said Sherlock.

"Neither would I." said Brenna, "You're on holiday in an obscure little town in the middle of Devon. That's a little hard to swallow."

"I'm sorry, how did you end up here again, Brenna?"

"I came from visiting my sister in Exeter. What's your excuse? Grimpen is a little far from you where I thought you were taking your holiday, which, the last time I spoke with you, was in Rome."

"Brenna's right, Inspector. I wouldn't believe that you're here for the purposes of leisure."

"Hello, John." Said Lestrade, who was expecting to get a bit of a warmer reception from him.

"Greg," said John, "Don't mind them. It's great to see you."

"I heard you were in the area. What are you up to?" Greg asked, "You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly?"

Sherlock, however, was still having none of it. "I am waiting for an explanation Inspector. Why are you here?"

"I told you, I'm on holiday."

"You're brown as a nut; you're clearly just back from your holidays."

"Maybe I fancied another one." Lestrade shot back.

"Oh, this is Mycroft, isn't it?" Sherlock suddenly realized that, of course, his little scheme of using Mycroft's identity yesterday wouldn't come without consequences.

"No, look…." Lestrade said, trying to defend both his own actions and those of Mycroft, but Sherlock wasn't about to give him the chance.

"Of course it is, one mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to spy on me incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself, Greg?"

Brenna groaned in despair, and rolled her eyes, burying her head in one hand. John, too, almost wasn't sure that he had heard Sherlock correctly. "That's his name."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, quite genuinely surprised, obviously, the idea that Lestrade might have had a first name was a possibility that he had never considered.

"Yes," replied Lestrade, somewhat wearily, "If you'd ever bother to find out. Look, I'm not your handler, and I don't do whatever your brother tells me."

There was an awkward pause, before John tried to smooth things over between all parties. "Actually, you could be just the man we want."

"Why?" asked Sherlock, who still seemed perfectly willing to kick Lestrade out of the bar and out onto the street.

"Well, I've not been idle, Sherlock." said John, as he reached out into his pocket and pulling out a piece of paper that looked like a receipt. "I think I might have found something."

He showed them the receipt that was marked a having come from a place called Undershaw Meat Supplies. "John, did you nick this from the bar?" asked Brenna.

"Yeah, while we were checking in. I didn't know if it was relevant; starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant."

"Oh, John, you're starting to pick up on my methods." Said Brenna, "You're learning that sometimes the most valuable things are those that everyone else overlooks."

"Brenna, I sometimes don't know whether I should be flattered or worried by the fact that you compliment me on things like this. At least with Sherlock, when he insults my intelligence, I know where he's coming from."

"Nevertheless, this is excellent." Said Sherlock.

John looked over at Greg. "Nice scary inspector from Scotland Yard who can out in a few calls might come in very handy."

"Yeah, just be like you are with Sherlock when you're both having a bad day." Said Brenna.

Later on, the four of them were gathered in the backroom of the pub, along with a very nervous looking Gary and Billy. Lestrade was doing rather well in his stern and scary police inspector mode. He was looking through some of the past invoices of the pub, specifically those that had been made out to Undershaw Meat Company. Brenna herself was watching Gary and Billy like a hawk. However, she also was able to see Sherlock pouring a cup of coffee from a nearby filter, picking it up and carrying it over to John.

"What's this?" John asked.

"Coffee. I made coffee." Said Sherlock, as though his actions should have been obvious, when Brenna knew for a fact that he never made coffee for himself if he could help it. He just barked out an order to whoever happened to be in the room, and then got tetchy when his coffee didn't materialize at once.

John was well aware of this behavior of Sherlock's and pointed it out to him. "You _never_ make coffee."

"I just did. Don't you want it?" said Sherlock, looking a bit confused that John wasn't accepting his peace offering."

"You don't have to keep apologizing." John said, gently.

However, Sherlock's expression went from confused to hurt. John finally relented and took the coffee from Sherlock's outstretched hand. "Thanks."

This seemed to brighten Sherlock's day almost immediately. When John took a sip from the coffee, he grimaced slightly, and said, "I don't take sugar."

This statement caused Sherlock to deflate yet again, and his expression was an almost perfect imitation of Lily when she tried to use her big, brown eyes and sad expression in order to guilt Brenna into giving her something. Brenna found herself beginning to wonder if Sherlock's sudden interest in making coffee as a kind gesture wasn't just a ruse for him to get something out of John. What he could possibly gain, she really had no idea. Nonetheless, John was sometimes a little bit of a sap when it came to Sherlock's pouting, and he almost felt obligated to take a few more sips of the offending liquid.

"That's nice, that's good." He said, as he quickly put the coffee down.

Before she was able to think on this further, Lestrade pulled her attention away, as he finished looking through the records. He turned his attention to Gary and Billy, who resembled two school boys who had been caught peeking into the girls' shower. "These records only go back two months."

"Now, there's a coincidence." Said Brenna, "The TV special about the Devon Hound came out around that time. Any positive evidence concerning the hound is about that old. I don't think I could call that a coincidence."

"You make a very good point, Brenna. Is that when you had the idea, after the TV show went out?"

"It's me. It was me." He turned to his partner, and said, "I'm sorry, Gary. I couldn't help it. I had a ham sandwich at Cal's wedding, and one thing just led to another…"

Brenna snorted. "Oh, come on, could you be an even worse of a liar if you tried?"

"Yeah, nice try." Said Lestrade, in agreement.

"Look," said Gary, finally coming clean. "We were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know? A great big dog run wild on the moor. It was heaven sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness Monster."

"And you never even thought about the consequences of your actions?" Brenna demanded. "Wild dogs like that are incredibly dangerous. They can attack animals, livestock, even people if they get to close. Where did you even keep it?'

"There's an old mineshaft. It's not too far. It was all right there."

"'Was?'" Sherlock questioned.

"You mean to tell me that you couldn't even control it, so you just let it go?" asked Brenna, in disbelief.

"You're right, we couldn't control it." Said Gary, "It was vicious. But we didn't let it go. A month ago, Billy took him to the vet and, er… you know."

"It's dead?" said John.

"Put down." Gary said, a little sadly.

"Yeah, no choice." Said Billy, who looked like he was on the verge of tears. It was quite clear that he had been more than a little attached to the creature they had taken in, regardless of how vicious it might have been. "So it's over."

Brenna doubted this. Both Gary and Billy were displaying clear signs of lying. They were avoiding eye contact with Lestrade or Brenna. They kept glancing at each other, as though they both knew that they were making their story up as they went along. They certainly were not telling all that they knew, but Brenna doubted if they would be telling them the rest if they tried.

Besides, she was feeling more than a little disappointed with Gary and Billy, who she had rather liked up until now. It was not helped, when Gary said, "It was just a joke, you know?"

"A joke?" said Brenna, angrily, "Is that all this is to you? Do I have to remind you that Henry Knight's life was ruined because of the Hound, that he saw his father being killed by the Hound? He was scarred for life, and you though that it would just be funny to bring in a major reminder of that now that he has come back?"

"Yeah, hilarious." Said Lestrade, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm and disgust. "You've nearly driven a man out of his mind."

Both Gary and Billy had the sense to at least look ashamed under the double onslaught of scolding. Brenna huffed, and stormed out of the room, followed closely by the rest of them. The other three men followed her out of the pub, though Sherlock himself seemed to linger for a moment, as he didn't appear behind them until a few moments later. This gave John enough time to say to Lestrade, "You know, he's actually pleased you're here." Lestrade didn't seem to believe this, so John was forced to amend "Secretly pleased."

"Well, you have to admit that Sherlock probably wouldn't admit to being pleased by anyone but himself." said Brenna.

"You really think so? That's nice. I suppose he likes having all the same faces back together. Appeals to his… his…"

"Asperser's?" John supplied, when Lestrade seemed to be searching for the right word.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway and glared at John momentarily, having heard the last few words of the conversation."

"So, you believe what they said, about finding a wild dog and trying to make it into some sort of pet or mascot?"

"It's common enough to find a wild dog running around this part of the country." Said Brenna, "Perhaps if one is lured by the promise of free food, it would want to stick around."

"That would explain some of the sightings, not to mention the footprints." Said Sherlock.

"But why would they still be showing up if Billy and Gary put it down?" John asked.

"Unless there was more than one." Said Brenna, "However, they could have been lying about putting it down, too. The way which they talking about the dog indicated that though it might have been vicious, they were still attached to it."

"Well, it's something to keep in mind." Said Lestrade, "Hopefully, there's no harm done. Besides, whether or not they were lying, I'm not quite sure what I would charge them will. I'll go and have a word with the local force, see if there have been any sightings of dogs like the one they described." He was moving away as he said this, and he shot a grin back over his shoulder at them. "I'm enjoying this! It's nice to get London out of your lings."

"So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor?"

"Looks like it." Said Sherlock. "But whether or not Brenna is correct in saying that they were lying, it makes little difference."

"But that wasn't what you saw. That wasn't just an ordinary dog."

"No. It was immense, had burning red eyes and it was glowing, John. Its whole body was glowing." For a split second, Sherlock was in the grip of the terror that haunted him last night. However, he managed to shake it off quickly, and began walking back towards the car. "I have a theory, but we're going to have to get back inside Baskerville to test it."

"How are we going to do that? We can't pull off the ID trick again."

"And judging by the reception we got from Major Barrymore last time, I doubt he'll let us by if we simply ask politely."

"May not have to do either of those options." Said Sherlock, as he took out his phone and dialed a number. "Hello, brother dear," he said, in the overly exaggerated sweet tone customary of all younger siblings whenever they want something out of the older ones. "How are you?"

* * *

In his London office, Mycroft had to physically bite his tongue in order to stop himself saying the first thing that came into his head. "Why, Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise. Are you finally going to give me a real explanation as to what you were doing in Baskerville?"

"Mycroft, I'm working on a case."

"And what kind of case would demand that you break into a top-secret government facility using my identity?"

"It's hardly my fault if the security in your 'top secret' government facility was so poor, they weren't even able to tell that I looked nothing like you. It makes one question what would happen if a _real_ threat were to come along."

Mycroft sighed. There would be no reasoning with Sherlock. And if he attempted to lay out exactly the fall out which his little brother's actions had cost him, that would only tell Sherlock that his little break-in into Baskerville had succeeded in annoying him. He wasn't about to give Sherlock the satisfaction.

"Just what do you want, Sherlock?"

"I need to get back into Baskerville, with enough time to run a few tests. I can't have any interference from the security or scientists, and I'll need full access to their systems."

"Why on earth would you need to do that? Didn't your first little visit yield enough pertinent information?"

"You don't tell me everything, Mycroft? Why would I do the same for you?"

Under any ordinary circumstances Mycroft would have flatly denied his brother's request. However, this time, he paused. Sherlock needed his help, and if it had progressed to the point where he was willing to admit it, he must have been prepared to give quite a lot to obtain that help.

And Mycroft also found himself in need of Sherlock's help. Oh, he came to his brother for help quite often on a variety of manners. However, those were mostly an excuse to check up on him, as well as to irritate his little brother. His most recent problem, however, required the skills which only Sherlock could provide.

"I can get you into Baskerville unchecked for 24 hours, Sherlock." he said, at last, quietly. "But, if I do that, you will have to promise to help me with something in return."

Silence on the other end of the line. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would be struggling with himself, in an eagerness to solve the case with his personal aversion to being in Mycroft's debt for anything. "What is it that you need?"

"It's a personal matter, Sherlock, and dare I say, it's a matter of the highest trust." That was all he felt he could say to Sherlock over the phone, and he could only hope that it would be enough to convince Sherlock to take the deal.

There was a long moment of silence, during which Mycroft found himself holding his breath. At last, Sherlock said, slowly and with a great deal of reluctance. "All right, you can give me the details as soon as we get back to London."

"Good, in that case, you should head to Baskerville. Your twenty-hours begins now."

Without bothering to exchange unnecessary and unfelt farewell pleasantries, he hung up. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. Sherlock would follow through on his end of the bargain, of that he had no doubt. That was really the only hope he now to cling to. He hadn't slept at all in the past two days, not since the first… incident. The stress was beginning to take a toll on him, especially since it seemed that, even from prison, the Spider was still pulling all the strings. Indeed, he sometimes found himself wondering if Moriarty had not planned on allowing himself to be captured all along.

And right now, one of those strings had Mycroft's hands tied. The picture on his desk, of Anthea's beautiful face with a big red X over it, told him all too clearly that the life of the woman he loved was hanging also by a thread. And if he did not do something soon, her life would be cut as easily as any silken cord.

**Yes, I am dropping hints of the Reichenbach Fall already. I can never leave my characters happy for too long. I already have Reichenbach planned out, and it is hopefully going to be as much of a heartbreaker as the original episode. But, I am getting a little ahead of myself. With our intrepid threesome off to the scary environs of Baskerville, what will happen when old nightmares become unleashed?**

**For now, please read and review.**


	10. Nightmare

**There is a brief note on this scene that I should mention. As we all know, one of the most intense scenes in the entire episode is when John finds himself locked in one of the labs of Baskerville, and believes that he is being stalked and hunted by the Hound. And of course, the entire thing is really an "experiment" set up by Sherlock in order to test out the drug. **

**Setting aside the morality of the issue (let's face it, would any of us be so quick to forgive Sherlock for half of what he puts John through), I have always had a little bit of a problem with some Sherlock/OC stories when it comes to this part, because it always seems that the woman is either in on the trick or just lets Sherlock go through with it. I've never really understood why that would happen, and would find that the woman would probably try to stop Sherlock. **

**However, since I didn't want to deprive the series of own of it's most chilling scenes, I thought that it would be interesting to see what would happen if Sherlock's experiment inadvertently ended up involving the woman he loved. From that idea, emerged my idea of this chapter. Enjoy!**

Nightmare:

The trio came back to Baskerville a short time later. They managed to make it past the guards with a relative ease, and it was obvious that Mycroft had called ahead to facilitate that event. Once they were past the guards, and inside the building, John split off from them to inspect the labs, specifically those of Dr. Stapleton. That was all right with Brenna, she had a person of her own to snoop after.

However, first she tagged along with Sherlock. He was going to inform Major Barrymore of the good news that he would be getting a chance to play host to them once more. She didn't want him to come this far, only to lose his chance by saying the wrong thing, which was always a possibility where Sherlock was concerned.

The Major, as might be expected was less than thrilled by the announcement. "Oh, you know I'd love to. I'd _love_ to give you unlimited excess to this place. Why not?"

"It's a simple enough request, Major." Said Sherlock.

"I've never heard of anything more bizarre."

"You're to give me twenty-four hours. It's what I've…" He paused, practically having to force himself to say the word he hated using when it came to Mycroft. "Negotiated."

Brenna glanced at Sherlock, suddenly realizing that she herself was unaware of just what Sherlock and negotiated with Mycroft in order to get this 24 hour pass. She could only hope that Sherlock wouldn't regret the action.

"Not a second more." Barrymore warned, looking very much look some sort of stern head master at a school. "I may have to comply with this order but I don't have to like it." He swung around to his computer at the desk behind him while Sherlock and Brenna moved to leave the office. "I don't know what you expect find here anyway."

"Perhaps the truth." Said Sherlock, who couldn't resist the chance to bait the Major.

Barrymore turned back around to face them. "About what? Oh, I see. The big coat should have told me. You're one of the conspiracy lot, aren't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, while Barrymore smirked sardonically. "Well, then, go ahead, seek them out: the monsters, the death rays, the aliens."

"Have you got any of those, by chance?" Brenna asked, "It would make this whole thing so much more interesting." Barrymore caste a sour glare in her direction. "Well, I was just checking."

Barrymore leaned forward in his chair and said in a hushed whisper, as though he were imparting a great secret. "A couple, crash landed here in the sixties. We call them Abbot and Costello."

"Not Laurel and Hardy." Brenna shot back, and Sherlock was hard-pressed to keep a straight face.

Barrymore didn't rise to Brenna's bait, as he obviously had better things to do with his time than trade witty dialogue with the two of them. "Good luck, Mr. Holmes." He said, as he turned his chair to them in a clear dismissal.

As the two of them exited the office, and went off into the hallway, Brenna put a hand on Sherlock's arm to stop him. "Sherlock, just what did you trade Mycroft for these 24 hours?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. He normally wouldn't have hesitated to tell Brenna, but this time, he found himself pausing. Something in Mycroft's tone of voice earlier had struck him as sounding odd. He had almost sounded worried, almost frightened. Sherlock knew that hardly anything caused his brother to have such a reaction. And somehow, it now struck him as wrong that he should tell it to another person, even Brenna. "He just requested help on some personal matters. I don't know anything more than that."

Brenna stared at Sherlock for a few seconds, and realizing that Sherlock wasn't going to tell her anymore, simply nodded and, coming forward, kissed him gently on the cheek, before saying, "Be careful, Sherlock. This is still a top secret army base. I don't want you to accidentally uncover something that could harm you."

"Just so long as you're careful not to find anything you're attempted to steal."

Brenna grinned at him. "I'll certainly try."

* * *

Brenna had yet to tell Sherlock or John about her suspicions regarding Dr. Frankland. Her gut feeling that he was somehow entangled in all of this subterfuge regarding the Hound and the death of Henry's father had only grown stronger. She hoped that by looking through Baskerville's secrets, she might be able to unearth whatever it was that Frankland was hiding.

It was evening. Sherlock had no doubt chosen this time to start his investigation so that he would have free reign over Baskerville's laboratories with relatively little interference from the scientists who worked there. That made it much easier to sneak into Frankland's office and begin to do a little bit of preliminary snooping.

Frankland's office were somewhat cluttered with files of various thickness, all of them scribbled with complex figures and formulas. She didn't really pay any attention to those, suspecting that none of those would hold the answers that she was looking for. She wasn't even aware of what the questions were yet.

She did, however, find one thing, which seemed to stand out. It was a rather hefty file which contained notes on an experimental drug that Frankland had been working on, for what seemed to be a very long time. The notes seemed to go back to at least 2007, but from what she could decipher of the scientific hand writing (which really wasn't all that much, she had to admit), it seemed as though Frankland had been working on this particular drug for a very long time. She didn't really know what it could be; only that he seemed to consider it his greatest achievement and that he believed it could change the face of how warfare was conducted.

She was looking over all of this information when her phone beeped. It was a text from Anthea, saying that she was sending over all of the information that she could on Bob Frankland. Opening the attached e-mail, Brenna swiftly read through the file. At first, Frankland appeared to be a perfectly ordinary virologist. However, no one ended up at Baskerville who was simply ordinary. Brenna had already seen enough of their workings to suspect that Baskerville's agenda was somewhat morally questionable. If one worked there, one either had to be very good at ignoring one's conscience or crazy enough to be willing to do anything.

Digging deeper into Frankland's background, it seemed that he fit into the latter category. The main was undoubtedly brilliant. He had been involved in several joint projects between the United States and England; indeed, for several years he had actually worked in America. However, he also had a history of being dangerously unstable and paranoid. There were multiple reports of attempted violence upon his fellow scientists when he felt that things were not going his way. He also seemed to be something of an obsessive, insisting on getting things exactly right, to the point where he could sometimes put himself and many others in danger for the sake of getting an experiment done.

The only reason why Frankland was still around was because, in his saner moments, he happened to have several good ideas. It seemed as though Baskerville had been something of a retirement package, giving the government a chance to still take advantage of his skills, while at the same time, being able to keep an eye on him.

Scanning the reports made by various psychologists who had observed during the times when he had been deemed unstable, she couldn't help but notice that two of those incidents had occurred around the time of not only the death of Henry's father, but also his mother. She was willing to bet that that wasn't a coincidence.

On the other hand, it was also not sufficient enough to prove that Frankland could have anything to do with the death of Henry's father. It might be a good thing to bring to Sherlock's attention, though, now that she knew a little more.

As Frankland's office did not seem to be yielding much more, she decided to head down to the laboratory where they had first encountered him. She had seen him coming out of one of the test chambers, and she believed that might be another good place to look around. As the labs were basically deserted, she didn't think that they would have left any of the more poisonous gases on.

Heading down to the lab, she was able to quickly locate the door to the test chamber and pushed her way inside. The interior of the test chamber was dark and shadowy. There was a glass cage on one side of the room. Most likely it could be sealed off in order to perform experiments.

She was distracted momentarily from her probing, when she heard the sound of the door opening behind her. Brenna gave a small squeak of surprise, whirling around and focusing her flashlight at the entrance. She heaved a deep sigh of relief, and said, "John, you really shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

"Sorry," said John, "I didn't think that anyone would be in here at this hour. I actually saw them all leaving. What are you doing down here?"

Brenna shrugged. "Same reason you are, probably, trying to look for anything out of the usual. Of course, what's usual in the real world might be completely different in Baskerville."

"True enough." Said John, with a smile. He moved off a few paces and looked around the room for a few minutes. "So far, I haven't found anything that would indicate a giant Hound, but this place is big, maybe I haven't looked in the right place yet.

Brenna was about to reply when she saw the large metal pipes that were on the right hand of the room. One of them appeared to be leaking some sort of gaseous fog. "You'd think that a top of the line secret laboratory would have better plumping." She said, pointing to the leak. "At least, I hope that's plumbing. If it's some sort of deadly poison, we'll probably start dying in a few minutes."

"I think we would have felt some of the effects if it was dangerous." Said John, "My guess is that they use those pipes in order to pump the gases in here so that they can do research on them. Still, even if it isn't dangerous, we might want to exit now."

"I won't argue with you on that."

They left the test chamber, before splitting up so that they cover more ground. Brenna went through the door on the opposite end of the lab. The lab she had entered seemed to be completely identical to the one which she had just left. She really wasn't sure how much more of this searching she could take. At least when she was scoping out a museum for potential targets, there was something interesting to look at in the meantime.

All of a sudden, the lights went off, plunging the entire lab into utter darkness. The sudden transition from bright, white light to the shadowy dimness caused Brenna's eyes to be blinded by bursts of light and color. When her vision cleared, it didn't help her much as the lab was still dark. She clicked on her flash light and moved it around the room.

She was puzzled. She had no idea why the lights would suddenly go off with no warning like this. She wasn't really to keen on sticking around in a dark lab. She normally didn't have a problem with darkness like this. Being a thief meant that night was the time when she had been most active. But, for some reason being in the dark in a place like Baskerville, with a so many conspiracy theories attached to it, made her feel a shiver skate down her spine.

She headed for the door to the hallway, but she was only halfway there, when a loud blaring siren blasted through the lab. It pierced Brenna's skull, and persisted despite her best efforts to block it out. She tried to fight back the memories which threatened to overwhelm her. A few months before, when she had been tortured by Moriarty, part of that torture had consisted of near constant sonic torture. The result had made her incredibly sensitive to loud noises. Not only could they make her react physically, but they could also make her remember what she normally was able to forget

The siren had not been going for more than five minutes before she had broken into a cold sweat. She felt dizzy, and her breathing became short and labored.

It didn't help that floodlights built into the ceiling now turned on, bathing some parts of the lab with a white, hot light which was worse than the normal lighting, while other areas remained plunged into deeper shadow. The sharp contrast served to heighten Brenna's disorientation. She instead tried to make herself as small as possible, trying to cope with it.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the siren stopped and the floodlights went off, leaving the lab was plunged once more into shadowy blackness and eerie silence. Brenna stood up, leaning against the counter in the middle of the room, as she took a few minutes to catch her breath. She felt slightly sick. She suddenly wanted very much to be away from here, wherever Sherlock was, who seemed to represent all that was safe and controlled.

But before she could move one step towards the door, she froze when another sound cut through the silence, only this was not a siren or any other mechanical sound. It was a low groan of a human voice, a tone that seemed heavy with desperation and pain. But, it cut Brenna to her very soul, for it was a voice that she knew.

"Brenna, help me."

She would have known that voice anywhere, though she hadn't heard it in almost seven years. No, there was no way she would have been unable to recognize even the slightest whisper of that voice.

"Dad?" She whispered, hardly unable to believe that she was hearing. "Dad, is that you?"

"Brenna, help me, please."

Brenna did not stop think. She did not ask herself the obvious question of how her father could be here in Baskerville when he was supposed to be who knows where else investigating Moriarty. She had been gripped with a horror and terror so acute that any question of logic fled. Desperately, she called out again. "Dad, dad, where are you? Tell me where you are."

There was no answer, save a low moaning, and than the nightmare grew even more terrifying. A low, rumbling growl began to be heard. Brenna once more felt the familiar shiver of dread down her spine. That sort of sound did not come from anything natural. Up until that point, she had firmly believed that the Hound was nothing more than a myth. But now, she found herself questioning that belief. What if the Hound were real? What if he had come from Baskerville? And what if he were suddenly now in the room with her?

No sooner had this thought occurred to her than there was a sudden blur of motion to her right which caused her to whirl around and focus the beam of her flash light in that direction. She froze at the sight in front of her. It was a hound, an enormous black hound, with blood red eyes; its entire body was glowing with a sinister green light. His mouth was covered with blood, as he tore viciously at the body lying on the floor. Her hear stopped when she saw just who it was. It was her father. The hound was killing her father by literally tearing him to pieces.

Brenna screamed. It was a scream of pure terror and powerlessness, for fear had utterly paralyzed her. She couldn't move, think, or breathe. She could do nothing, but watch the nightmarish scene before helplessly.

The scream seemed to alert the hound to her presence, for it turned its attention from her father's broken and bleeding body, and turned its terrible red-eyed stare in her direction. Brenna backed up, trying to put any amount of distance between her and that horrible monster. She only vaguely heard her father calling for her to run, but she couldn't run. Her feet seemed frozen to the ground and they refused to move. She could only watch in terror as the Hound came ever closer to her, growling, its mouth dripping with blood. She was going to die in this stupid lab. Her life was over. All the things she had planned, had wanted to experience, all of it was going to end here and now.

And then, finally, the nightmare ended.

The normal lighting for the labs suddenly came blazing on, and with it, the horrifying images which she had been tortured with the past few minutes vanished, and she felt herself grabbed from behind. Brenna screamed again, only to be met by the soothing words of a friend, "Hey, Brenna, calm down. It's all right."

"John," Brenna was only able to say it as only a breathless whisper. "John, is that you?"

"Of course, it's more." John was startled when Brenna abruptly whirled around in his arms and hugged him, nearly strangling John in her relief. "Brenna, what happened?"

Brenna suddenly pushed away from John, horror filling her anew. "John, my father... The Hound… We have to get him away from here."

"Brenna, what are you talking about?"

"John, the Hound, my father, he was attacked by it. You must have seen them. they were right over-" Brenna had turned to try and point out the sight to John, but she was utterly stunned when she saw that there was nothing there, no mangled body, no hound, not even a trace of blood.

"What… what's going on? He was there, so was the hound."

"Brenna, you were hallucinating?"

"Hallucinating? What?"

"Brenna, none of what you saw was actually happening." Sherlock's calm voice suddenly spoke for the first time, and Brenna saw that he had most likely been standing there all along. Brenna, overcome with relief rushed into his arms. Sherlock, a bit taken aback, cleared his throat and coughed a little before continuing trying to soothe her. "Nothing that you saw was actually happening. You were drugged."

"What do you mean?"

"You were drugged somehow, in the same that Henry and I were last night. It made you see things, feel things that weren't true."

"But, it seemed so real. I could have sworn that I saw something like it."

"So did I, Brenna." Said John, and only now did Brenna notice that his face appeared pale and drawn, his eyes showing scant traces of the same terror that had possessed her. "Just ten minutes ago, I could have sword that I saw the same hound, glowing, red eyes. But, Sherlock said that it was all a drug."

"But if it was a drug, how did John and I become infected with it?"

"I don't know, Brenna. But, I will find out. I promise you."

Brenna was too exhausted to question him any further. She simply buried herself in Sherlock's arms, seeking for what comfort she could find.

Anyone who had seen the expression on Sherlock's face during this exchange would have seen the mask had dropped his face. His expression seemed one of real and genuine concern, which was true. However, there was something else mixed in with that tenderness, an emotion which Sherlock was not at all used to: guilt.

He had done this to Brenna. He had reduced her to this state. He had deduced from his experiences last night that the drug not only produced powerful hallucinogenic effects, it also forced a person to confront their very deepest fears, in this case, Brenna being powerless to help her father. How could he have done that to her? True, he had done the same thing to John, by feeding him the sugar in the coffee earlier and then locking him in the lab next door to stimulate it. Granted, the effects had been slightly more severe than he anticipated or would have liked.

But, he had never meant to expose Brenna to the experiment. He had specifically made sure that she didn't touch the sugar that came from Henry Knight's kitchen, and made absolutely sure that she had been out of the lab when he had activated the emergency systems.

Unless... of course, the emergency systems. The labs in Baskerville were top of the line in terms of their security. There was a very specific protocol that was followed in case of a breach. All the labs went on total lockdown, no one being able to enter or leave until the crisis had passed. The main lights also went out, switching to emergency lighting. The alarms alerted the workers to what was happening. It had been the perfect stimulation to test the drugs' effects.

But he had not thought for one second that if the emergency systems worked in one lab, they would most likely work in all the others. He cursed himself for his stupidity and lack of foresight. Now, Brenna was suffering the consequences of his thoughtlessness. He was no better than Moriarty, as he had put her through so much pain.

There was only one way he could make this better now. He had to get to the bottom of all this, find out what this drug was and who was using it, and finally put a stop to it. Only than, would he ever be able to forgive himself. He could only hope that Brenna would be willing to do the same.

* * *

**I hoped that you enjoyed my little take on this scene. Also, I am including a bit more background for Frankland. I hope that his motivation is becoming a little clearer than it was in the show. Please read and review. **


	11. The Truth Will Out

**This chapter has a few added bits of background that I think could have been in the original chapter. Though I love this episode, I always felt that Frankland's motivations and Henry's back story were a little murky. I just wanted to take this opportunity to try and explore those two issues in this chapter. Enjoy!**

The Truth Will Out:

Finding out the root cause for the drug had now become uppermost in Sherlock's mind. To that end, he turned to Dr. Stapleton, who was working late into the night in a different part of the labs. She was less than thrilled to see them, but Sherlock already had the perfect weapon up his sleeve, and he proved it when he turned off the lights, showing that the rabbit which Stapleton had been working with was glowing in the dark, thus proving that she was the one who had taken her daughter's rabbit from its hutch.

No mother wants to face their heartbroken child, especially when that particular parent happens to be the cause of that distress. Stapleton was more than willing to help out when Sherlock threatened to tell her daughter about what she had done.

Sherlock promptly commandeered Stapleton's microscope, and began analyzing the sugar samples which he had taken from Henry's kitchen. He alternated between looking into the sample and taking notes on what he saw, and sitting with his back to the microscope, his hands folded as he tried to think through the events of the last few days.

He was utterly absorbed in that venture, leaving the three of them pretty much to their own devices. Both Brenna and John must have looked pretty awful from their experiences in their labs, as Stapleton seemed moved to a rare display of non-clinical behavior and went to get them coffee. "Are you _sure_ you're okay? You look very peaky."

"Believe me, I've been through worse." Said Brenna. Even after the terrifying experience she had just had, it didn't compare with what she had endured for five days at the hands of Moriarty. If the drug affected her in the same way that it had Sherlock, she believed that she and John would be all right within twenty-four hours. She hoped, at least.

"She's all right. We're all right."

"It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish in case you're interested." Said Stapleton, after a moment.

"What?" said John.

"In the rabbits."

"Mmm, right, yes." Said John, who really didn't look like he cared.

"Aequoria Victoria, if you really want to know." Stapleton looked rather disturbingly proud of her work.

"Why?" John asked.

"Why not?" said Stapleton, as though it should be considered the most natural thing in the world. "We don't ask questions like that here. It isn't done."

"Yes, just what the world needs, glow in the dark rabbits." Said Brenna, sarcastically, "I can seem them becoming all the rage. Is that what happened with Bluebell?"

"That was a mix-up, I'm afraid. My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens, so poor Bluebell had to go."

"Your compassion is overwhelming." Said John, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

"I know. I hate myself sometimes."

"I'm sure you do." Muttered Brenna.

"So, come on then. You can trust me, I'm a doctor. What else have you got hidden away up here?"

"And you don't have to worry about saying anything in front of me. I flunked chemistry in college, so probably anything you have to say to me I won't even understand."

"Listen, if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it somewhere. Of course they are."

"And cloning?" said John.

"Yes, of course. Dolly the Sheep, remember?"

"Human cloning?" John pressed.

"Why not?"

"What about animals? Not sheep." He clarified, "Big animals."

"Size isn't a problem, not at all."

"And you never stop to ask yourself if all of this high tech, secret, mumbo jumbo is that good of an idea? Do you never consider that there might be more far reaching consequences to your actions?"

"The only limits here at ethics and the law, and both those things can be… very flexible. But not here, not at Baskerville."

During this entire conversation, Sherlock had not spoken or made any sort of interjection. However, he seemed to be growing increasingly agitated and frustrated the more he stared at the sample of sugar under the microscope. Finally, the frustration for the better of him. He surged suddenly to his feet, and threw the sample across the room violently, where it shattered against the far wall. "It's not there!" He cried, in frustration.

The sudden move caused everyone in the lab to jump. "Sherlock, what is it?" Brenna asked.

"Nothing there! Doesn't make any sense."

"What were you expecting to find?" Stapleton asked.

"A drug, of course. There has to be a drug, a hallucinogenic or a deliriant of some kind. There's no trace of anything in the sugar."

"Sugar?" John questioned.

"The sugar, yes. It's a simple process of elimination. I saw the Hound; saw it as my imagination expected me to see it: a genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight, he saw it too, but you didn't, John. And neither did you, Brenna. Neither of you saw it. Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen apart from one thing: John, you don't take sugar in your coffee, and you Brenna, drank Henry's wine, not his coffee."

"I see." Said John, "So…"

"Wait a minute, Sherlock, just where did you get this sugar?"

"I took it from Henry's kitchen. His sugar. It's perfectly all right." He added, after a pause, and glaring down at his telescope, as though the instrument were responsible for the blank which he was drawing.

"But, maybe it's not a drug." Said John.

"No, it has to be a drug." Sherlock had sounded so syre of himself a few hours ago, and now he was in the grips of what Brenna recognized as extreme frustration. He had sat back down on the stool which he had been using during his study of the microscope. His head was bowed, and his eyes closed in intense concentration. "But how did it get into our systems. _How_?"

He paused, as something seemed to occur to him, but it was far off and distant and he had to reach for it. "There must be something… Something…. Something buried deep."

At this point, he suddenly turned to the three of them and said, without ceremony and rather imperiously, "Get out!"

Brenna rolled her eyes, recognizing that tone and knowing what it meant. "What?" said Stapleton, who was quite confused as to the direction this conversation was taking.

"Get out; I have to get to my Mind Palace."

"You're what?"

John sighed in resignation and got to his feet. "He's not gonna be doing much talking for awhile. We may as well go."

They started heading for the door to the laboratory, while Sherlock began breathing deeply to focus his thoughts. Meanwhile, Stapleton asked John, "His what?"

"Oh, his Mind Palace."

"Spelled with capital letters, John, don't forget that."

"Right, remember that. It's a memory technique, a sort of mental map. You plot a map with a location, it doesn't have to be a real place and then you deposit memories there."

"It's actually a very good technique. I have a sort of mind museum myself, came in pretty handy for my former career. Theoretically, you can never forget anything; all you have to do is find your way back to it."

"So, this imaginary location can by anything, a house or a street." Said Stapleton.

"Yeah." John confirmed.

"But, he said 'palace.' He said it was Palace."

"Well, he would, wouldn't he?" commented John, wryly.

"With Sherlock, I'm sure he considers it no less than the Taj Mahal." Rejoined Brenna.

* * *

It was only a short time later that Sherlock joined them in the hallway. He appeared triumphant, and it was clear that searching through his Mind Palace had been a success. He needed to go to the security offices in order to check the security databases. As they entered the room, Sherlock motioned to the door and said, "John."

"Yeah, I'm on it." said John, as he watched the hallway through the door window in order to make sure that they weren't disturbed.

With John to watch the door, Stapleton went to sit down at one of the computers. "Sherlock, what is going on?" said Brenna.

"Project H.O.U.N.D." said Sherlock, "Must have read about it and stored it away. An experiment in a CIA facility in Liberty, Indiana."

"So, you were right, about the word Hound being an acronym."

"Yes, I think so."

Brenna was finding herself suddenly reminded of something. This struck her as being very familiar. She dug out her phone and went to the e-mail that Anthea had sent her about Frankland. "Brenna?" Sherlock questioned.

"What you just said reminds me of something." She finally saw what she had been looking for in trying to connect this with Frankland. "That experiment you mentioned. It as a CIA operation, but it was a joint operation with the British Secret Services." She handed the phone to Sherlock for him to read the e-mail.

"What was it for?" asked Sherlock, as he took the phone from her.

"I don't know. Not even Anthea could tell me that. But it must have failed rather badly, because they hushed it up after some sort of accident."

"How on earth would you know that?"

"Because I asked Anthea to look into Bob Franland for me." Sherlock looked at her, obviously confused as to why she would want to do such a thing. Brenna explained: "Look, the night that you and Henry saw the Hound, I ran into Frankland outside the pub. He seemed suspicious, so I wanted to dig a bit deeper. There's more to him than meets the surface, Sherlock. Of that, I'm certain."

Sherlock didn't normally give much credence to gut reactions. However, Brenna had survived by those same instincts for years, and they had served her well. He had learned to pay close attention to them. As he thought about Frankland's behavior during the course of their acquaintance, he found himself struck with the fact that in trying to divert their attention to Stapleton, Franland might have been trying to distract from looking to deeply into his motives. Perhaps it might be worth checking out when they found out more about HOUND.

Stapleton had typed in her ID and password to one of the security computers when the computer asked her to enter the search string. "H, O, U, N, D." Dictated Sherlock.

But when she tried typing in those letters, the message came up **No access. CIA classified.** "That's as far as my access goes, I'm afraid." Said Stapleton.

"There must be an override password." Said John.

"I imagine so, but that'd be Major Barrymore's."

Sherlock instantly headed for Barrymore's darkened office, muttering about passwords under his breath. He flicked on the lights, and sat down in the desk chair. "He sat here when he thought it up." He mused.

He spun around in a circle, looking intently at the books and papers scattered around the office. He turned back to Stapleton who had come up to the doorway. "Describe him to me."

"You've seen him." Said Stapleton, a little confused as to the question.

"What's he like?" said Brenna, coming into the office alongside Sherlock, and clarifying his former statement. "His personality. What's he like as a military man and commander?"

"Er, he's a bloody martinet, a throwback, the sort of man they'd have sent into Suez."

"Good, excellent." Said Sherlock, "Old-fashioned traditionalist; not the sort that would use his children's names as a password."

"My father was the same way." Said Brenna, "He always strove to keep his personal and professional lives separate. I suspect Barrymore is the same way. He loves his job. Proud of it, and this is work-related."

"He most likely would have chosen something at eye level." Said Sherlock, continuing their train of through almost without pause. The two of them had entered that frame of mind they often had on a case, when they could almost anticipate each other's thoughts. "Books. _Jane's Defense Weekly_, bound copies. Hannibal, Wellington, Rommel, Churchill's _History of the English-Speaking Peoples_, all four volumes." He glanced up and saw a bronze bust of Churchill sitting on one of the shelves. He stood up, "Churchill. Well, he's fond of Churchill."

"Yes, but Sherlock, look." Brenna pointed out another line of books on the shelf. "Copy of the _Downing Years_, one, two, three, four, five, separate biographies of Thatcher. And then, there's this." She indicated the framed photo of the desk of a man in uniform standing wit his teenaged son.

"Mid 1980's, at a guess." Said Sherlock, "Father and son; Barrymore senior." He studied the uniform of the older man. "Medals, Distinguished Service Order." He looked around to John, relying on his friends' knowledge of military service to give an exact date."

"That date? I'd say Falklands Veteran."

"Seems that Thatcher is a more likely possibility then Churchill." Said Brenna.

"Exactly what I was thinking." Said Sherlock, as the two of them came out of the office, and headed back for the computer.

Stapleton followed them. "So, that's the password."

"No." said Sherlock, a slightly sarcastic tinge in his voice. "With a man like Major Barrymore, only first name terms will do."

He began to type Margaret Thatcher's first name into the authorization box. Than, he paused, seeming to think better of it. He deleted everything he had just typed, except for the last letter and typed in "**Maggie**" instead. He hit enter and a moment later the computer beeped, showing that the password had been accepted.

The information on the join CIA/British Secret Service operation known as HOUND appeared on the screen. It had been a research project based in Liberty, Indiana, operating under intense secrecy. Scientists working there had been attempting to produce a new weapon for totally disorientating the enemy in a hostile situation; a drug that would render the victims incredibly suggestive, activated by fear and stimulus. They had wanted to create a state of conditioned terror through aerosol dispersal.

There had been scientists working on the project, but five principal scientists had been responsible for the drugs' actual creation. In a photograph which appeared on the screen showing everyone in the team posing and smiling happily for the camera, those same five were in the foreground. And when Sherlock rearranged all of their names. They found the acronym H. .D.

But, HOUND, though sowing initial promise had proven to have dangerous and unforeseen side effects. Test subjects who had repeated exposure to the drug, were shown to suffer from paranoia, severe frontal lobe damage and gross cranial trauma. That was not the worst of it, though. Some test subjects had become so maddened by the drug, that they had effectively lost any sense of morality or control. They had killed people without realizing the damage which they were inflicting. The photographs of the test subjects' twisted and agonized expressions of terror sent shivers down Brenna's spine.

The world could probably devise any artificial weapon it wanted. There was still no weapon as dangerously effective or as dangerously uncontrollable as fear.

Sherlock had been studying all this information as it scrolled across the screen. "Project HOUND, a new deliberant drug which rendered its users incredibly suggestible. They wanted to use it as an anti-personal weapon to totally disorient the enemy using fear and stimulus; but they shut it down and hid it away in 1986."

"Because of what it did to the subjects they tested it on." Said Stapleton.

"And what they did to others, prolonged exposure drove them insane, made them almost uncontrollably aggressive."

Brenna was looking over the information herself. "Sherlock, the symptoms which are described here are almost exactly the same as those that Henry has been suffering from. That can't be a coincidence."

"You think that someone had been doing it again, continuing the experiments?" John asked.

"Yes, and I'm beginning to think that there might be more to than meets the eye." Said Brenna, "In fact…" She had been scanning the photo of all the scientists that had been involved with Project HOUND. Her eyes suddenly grew wide as she recognized one of the faces. "Oh, my god, Sherlock, that woman there, she's Elaine Dyson." She pointed to one of the faces in the picture. "She was Henry Knight's mother."

"You sure." John asked.

"Positive. I saw her picture at his house, and he told me that she kept her own name when it was related to her work. She was killed under mysterious circumstances here at Baskerville. Actually, she was a protégé of Frankland."

Sherlock began scanning the photo once more. "There has to be a connection here. Somewhere in the back of the picture, someone who was there long enough to be there at the time of the original experiments."

He suddenly stopped and his eyes focused in on one specific face. "Someone who uses the term to term 'cell phone' because of time spent in America. Do you remember, John, Brenna?"

"Oh, my god, Bob Frankland." Said Stapleton, as she herself began to connect the pieces. "But Bob's a virologist. This was chemical warfare."

"It's where he got his start, though." Said Sherlock, "And he's never lost the certainty, the obsession that it could work."

"That fits in with what I've been able to learn about him." Said Brenna, "He's an obsessive, sometimes given to bursts of irrational violence. Since he's so brilliant, they gave him a position here at Baskerville. They can keep an eye on him this way, and make use of him at the same time. Sounds like we need to pay him a little visit."

"Nice of him to give us his number." Said Sherlock, sardonically. "Let's say we give him a call."

Before that could be done, however, John's own mobile began to ring. "Hello?"

They heard the sound of a sobbing woman on the other end of the line, but they couldn't make out everything that was being, and John himself needed to ask who was on the other end. "Who is this?" He waited for the other person to respond before looking over at Sherlock and Brenna. "It's Louise Mortimer."

A few more seconds of hurried exchange between John and Louise followed, with John's face growing grimmer with every word that was spoken. Whatever had happened to Henry, it was bad, very, very bad.

Sherlock picked up on this as well. When John hung up, he asked him, in a tone that was filled with concern. "Henry?"

"He's attacked her."

"Gone?"

John nodded in the affirmative.

"Sherlock, if he's been going to the Hollow for the past few weeks, that means he's had regular exposure to the drug." Said Brenna, "There's no telling what he might do to himself or others. We have to find him before its too late."

"Agreed. He'll go back to the place where it all started." Sherlock took out his cell phone and hit the speed dial for Lestrade. "Lestrade, get to the Hollow… Dewer's Hollow. And bring a gun.

There was a tension in Sherlock's manner which was not always present at the very height of a case. Not only did he realize that a life could very well be at stake, but while working on this case, he had come to feel a sort of kinship with Henry Knight. A young man having been traumatized at an early age by witnessing something over which he had no control. It had affected Henry to this day, just as it had Sherlock. He had to let Henry know that he wasn't alone.

* * *

**Please read and review. Next up, the climatic showdown at the Hollow, where everything will finally be revealed.**

**Again, I hope that delving a bit into Henry's background, and how it all connects, helps to explain a little of Frankland's motivation. That's one of the things I like about fan fiction is being able to delve into the hidden meanings of character motivations. **


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